


Heirloom

by 2bestfriends



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Anal Sex, Animal Death, Arranged Marriage, Bathing/Washing, Blood Magic, Drinking, Drunken Flirting, First Time, Happy Ending, Hunting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Minor Character Death, Non-Graphic Violence, Oral Sex, Serious Injuries, Sorcerers, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:02:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25384255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2bestfriends/pseuds/2bestfriends
Summary: King Steven Grant Rogers of Aphekion is only 20 years old.He relies on the wisdom of his advisors, the strength and honesty of his people, and the love and kindness his mother left to him. He wants nothing more than to honor them all by bringing peace to his kingdom.So much has been sacrificed already. If he must sacrifice his hope for love, then so be it.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 137
Kudos: 637





	1. Prologue

  


Steve is 10 years old when his father is killed.

He is too young and weak to be on the battlefield fighting alongside him, despite how desperately Steve wishes to be a knight. He is not present to witness his father’s murder at the hands of the Thespethran king. 

There have been skirmishes all winter; bloody, brutal clashes that chip away at their borders, and his father, more often than not, joins his soldiers on the field, refusing to hide behind the castle walls.

And so, Steve’s father dies honorably with sword in hand, and suddenly, Steve is next in line for the throne.

Soon after, his mother, drawn and weary and grieving in her black veil, is appointed the title of queen regent until Steve comes of age.

👑❄️👑

Steve is 17 years old when he catches cold at the beginning of winter and cannot shake the illness.

For a month, he is gripped by deep, rattling coughs and interminable bouts of fever. Each time he appears to recover for a few days only for his health to quickly worsen once again. 

Steve does not have many memories of this period. 

He is bedridden and gripped with delirium, alternatingly shivering and sweating as he tosses and turns. Vertigo dominates his nausea-wracked body whether he’s conscious or not, his dreams a mass of swirling shapes and colors. 

In the midst of his hallucinations, he catches brief impressions of the waking world: his mother’s voice and cool hands, her worried blue eyes and lined face. 

By midwinter, Sarah Rogers is gone, and Steve is still alive— _healthy_ , even, hale and strong and hearty.

He is the only one that understands the sacrifice made for him, so that he might live and heal and grow, with the warmth of a familiar, beloved magic residing in the very core of him.

Steve will never forget.

His mother’s secret is his, and only his, to keep.

👑❄️👑

Steve is 18 years old when he is crowned king of Aphekion.

The loss of his mother is still too fresh, while his father’s fading memory lingers like a ghost in every corner of the castle. 

He stands alone, gold and jewels heavy at his temples, and faces down the uncertain future of his country with hope and trepidation. 

It doesn’t matter if he feels ready or able, because he is the king now, and there is no time or space for him to falter on his path.

👑❄️👑

Steve is 20 years old when, in a long-overdue bid for peace between Aphekion and Thespethra, Steve is betrothed to the son of his father’s killer.

***


	2. treaty.

  


When Steve receives word from the messenger that Prince James has arrived, he comes down to the courtyard expecting to see him astride his own horse accompanied by his knights.

Instead, the prince arrives in a gilded carriage with a small complement of mounted guards, and he steps gracefully out of the back looking like sin incarnate wrapped in form-fitting black silks and extravagant velvet, every inch of him trimmed with gleaming buttons and gold stitching. 

Prince James matches Steve in height. He’s very handsome, with clear, wide eyes of slate gray, a strong, sharp jaw, cleanly-shaven, and a vulnerable mouth and soft chin. His hair is artfully styled, a rakish tumble of brown curls that are just a bit longer than the current fashion. 

When they bow to one another, the prince dips much lower than custom would dictate of two royals of equal station. Steve straightens stiffly to find the prince smiling demurely at him, gloved hand extended. 

“My liege,” he says, in a manner suggestive of an expectation that he is to be led.

It’s not what Steve was anticipating. To be honest, he thought he’d be facing down a confident show of force, not subservient acquiescence, considering the history of their families.

“Prince James,” greets Steve, offering a hesitant smile. Maybe he’s just nervous. Steve certainly is.

“Oh, please, call me Bucky,” he says charmingly. 

Steve falters a little. “My advisors informed me that Bucky was a family name.”

"We _are_ getting married, aren't we?" says Bucky, with a coy little grin. "I could hardly stand to be addressed by my husband as _James_ every single day." 

Steve inclines his head to hide how flustered he suddenly is. "Bucky, then. Call me Steve."

He’s treated to another low bow. 

Steve shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot, unsure how to interpret this. "Please. Let me show you inside." He takes Bucky's hand.

Regaining his footing, Steve leads Bucky up to their private wing first, assuming he’ll want to settle in and enjoy some privacy before dinner. As he shows him to his own suite, Bucky asks, “I won’t be in your room?”

Steve glances at him in surprise, heat flooding his cheeks. “Oh, well—I thought you’d like—I mean, they are connected. Your room and mine, they’re joined, but the door between them locks, of course, if... You’re not expected to….”

“Steve, we’re to be married, as I said before. What’s mine is yours,” Bucky says with a dazzling smile, hip cocked out against the doorframe.

There's something about this whole display that's rubbing Steve very wrong, but he doesn't know what to do or say about it. He purses his lips and keeps his gaze on Bucky's face, not his body, and says, "That's not... We can discuss that. I'm well aware arranged marriages have become increasingly less common. To be quite honest, Bucky, I didn't expect this level of...enthusiasm."

Something flickers in Bucky's expression, just a slight break in the oozing charm, like he's stumbled over his own feet, before he collects himself again. "There's no need to treat this like a business transaction. I've been looking forward to getting to know you."

"Yes, getting to know each other is exactly where I'd like to start. Call me a romantic, I guess, but I... wanted the chance to fall in love," admits Steve. Realizing how harsh that sounds, he adds softly, "I haven't given up hope on that, either."

Bucky doesn't have a quick reply ready, but he does force a smile on his face. "Then I'm looking forward to discovering your romantic side, too."

Steve meets his smile and nods. "I'm going to leave you to get settled, but I'll escort you to dinner this evening. I thought it would be nice to spend it together, with just the two of us, since tomorrow will be such a big affair."

Bucky's smile freezes on his face, his gaze going a bit distant, like the reality of tomorrow hasn't really sunk in yet. "Then I'll—freshen up," he says thinly. "And see you at dinner?"

"Yes," says Steve. "I'll come around in about an hour, and your luggage will be brought up very shortly.” He hesitates, and adds, “This is your home now, Bucky. Make yourself comfortable, ask for anything you need, and it'll be brought to you."

"Thank you," says Bucky, sounding a little uncertain around the edges. He turns to look at the room behind him, his room now, the gloved fingers of his right hand _tap-tap-tapping_ at his thigh. "If you'll excuse me, then."

Steve inclines his head politely, before returning to his own room.

The moment he steps inside, he collapses back against the door, letting out a ragged breath. 

He wasn't exactly anticipating _this_. 

Bucky is—gorgeous, and every single tempting aspect of him has been put on display for this meeting, but why? They're already getting married. There's no need to win him over—the agreement has already been approved by both kingdoms. 

Before the peace talks even began, Steve’s advisors informed him that Bucky's older sister, Queen Rebecca, had been missing in action for almost eight months, only two years after taking the throne, though no one could say for certain where she was or why she’d left the capital. 

The prevailing theory was ominous: the Queen of Thespethra was once again preparing her kingdom for war against Aphekion, though it didn’t hold water once border patrols began reporting a notable withdrawal of Thespethran troops. 

Soon after, a messenger arrived with a formal request for a truce, and after several weeks of negotiations, Thespethra made a serious offer: Prince James’s hand in marriage. 

A Thespethran prince consort will give Aphekion control of several desirable assets and key locations between their kingdoms, not to mention maintaining the fragile peace treaty. 

Steve's not really sure what the game is here, but he needs to figure it out. The fact that Bucky has been presented to him like a prize Steve's won rather than a political partner moving forward is—interesting. Who’s been coaching him? What information has Bucky been given by _his_ advisors? 

Still. Peace is necessary for Aphekion’s future, and as a newly-crowned king, Steve wants to do what’s best for both their countries. 

Even if that means marrying someone he doesn't know or trust. 

Perhaps he’s being uncharitable, and Bucky is just eager to make the best of an uncomfortable situation. He could be trying to make this easier on himself. 

Steve will need to show him that he's genuinely looking for a partner, nothing more, nothing less.

With a sigh, he retreats to his desk to do some writing, allowing himself the next hour or so before dinner to wind down a little.

Just before dinner, he changes into more casual clothes, and knocks on Bucky’s door to retrieve him. 

Bucky doesn’t make him wait, opening the door a moment later. 

He's clearly bathed in the time Steve left him alone, hair still damp, but carefully styled in natural wavy curls, with the light botanical scent. The black traveling clothes are gone, having been replaced by a much less formal outfit, and he’s wearing a soft pair of black leggings, a long charcoal knitted sweater, and a cream-colored scarf wrapped around his neck and shoulders. With his bare feet and wet hair, the effect is soft and sweet. 

"Is this okay?" he asks, biting his lip. "You said it was just going to be the two of us, so I thought... something comfortable might be nice?"

"That's fine," breathes Steve, because this look is actually affecting him more strongly than the previous one had. There's something vulnerable about Bucky like this, and while part of him knows that for whatever reason, this is _calculated_ , a redirection of energy from his elaborate first impression, he is entirely taken in by it. "I thought we'd eat in my room. The table's set, dinner will be served in ten minutes."

Bucky smiles, and, again, executes one of those unnecessary respectful bows before he accepts Steve's proffered elbow. 

Steve leads him into his suite and watches as Bucky looks around with rapt attention. Steve's rooms are just as lavish as the rest of the palace; he didn't select any of this decor or ornamentation. Bucky doesn’t comment, though, so he guides him into the dining alcove and pulls his chair out for him, before taking his own seat. 

From the side door, the servants enter barely a second later, and begin serving the first course of creamy squash soup. 

Bucky observes everything happening around him with sharp, steely eyes. 

When they've been left alone again, he looks to Steve, who nods and says, "Please. I don't actually want to stand on ceremony in here." He picks up his own spoon, and Bucky does as well. "I hope the journey went well?" Steve adds, as they begin to eat.

"Yes," says Bucky. "No issues at all. It's a beautiful country. I've, well, I've obviously never been here before."

Steve hums, sipping politely at his soup. "I guess not, but I have hope that after this union, more people will be able to travel freely between our countries." 

Bucky nods in agreement, giving Steve another flickering smile. His sweater is too big for him, slipping down to expose his bare left shoulder, the sleeve briefly engulfing his hand. As he pushes it up again, Steve catches the wink of gold around his wrist, the gleam of a delicate bracelet. "You'll take me to see some of the sights soon, won't you?"

Steve blinks, distracted and pleased. "Yes. I actually intend to take you to some of my favorite parts of the country after the wedding, but...would you like that?" 

His advisors told him to plan a more traditional honeymoon, but Steve really does love his country, and the opportunity to show it to his new husband is tempting for so many reasons. There’s so much at stake. Steve wants this to work out so ardently, for Bucky to find joy here despite the contrived circumstances.

"Of course. That sounds lovely." Bucky doesn't look especially enthused by the prospect of a tour, and he lowers his gaze and sips primly at his soup. He's still smiling when he looks up at Steve, but it's the kind of fixed smile that doesn't reach someone's eyes. 

Steve’s heart sinks. Bucky has had to leave his home, to uproot his life and come to live in a completely unfamiliar country, with no support from his family, all of whom are dead or missing. How would Steve feel, if their positions were reversed?

"I hope that you will be comfortable here," Steve says quietly. He hesitates, then offers, "I know this can't be easy."

Some switch seems to flip, and that flirtatious personality returns, Bucky winking lasciviously at Steve. "But _I_ definitely am,” he laughs, a slight edge to it, and then helps himself to a roll from the basket, the thin gold band around his wrist reflecting the candlelight and catching Steve’s attention again. "You've been exceptionally charming, Steve. I have no doubt I'll be very comfortable here with you."

Steve takes a deep breath and butters his own roll. 

It's going to take some work to get to know the actual Bucky hidden beneath this mask, he thinks. "Tomorrow, the ceremony will likely take most of the morning, and then the celebrations will be expected to fill the rest of the day. In the evening, we'll leave together."

"Oh?” Bucky says. “We won't be spending the night together before we leave? I know you said you'd like to get to know each other, but I always thought intimacy was the best way to get to know someone. Can’t we leave first thing in the morning?" He reaches for his glass of wine and takes a sip, the oversized sweater slipping down his arm.

Steve takes a slow breath in through his nose. "If we wait until the morning, we'll probably be followed. I'd like to give us as much privacy as possible."

"Oh, well, if it’s privacy you’re after…. It's nice that you want me all to yourself." Bucky bites his lip deliberately, lowering his lashes. 

Steve has no idea what to say to that. What _is_ this performance? Steve feels like they’ve been cast in a play, but only Bucky was given the script. "Right,” he says stiffly. “Well, we should finish dinner. We have such an early morning."

Bucky’s expression is a complicated mix of disappointment and relief, though mostly he just looks faintly confused. Steve politely ignores his audibly shaky sigh as he reaches for his wine again. He's largely quiet for the rest of the meal, making one last half-hearted effort to flirt with Steve before they part for the evening.

👑❄️👑

The day of the wedding is odd.

Much of the ceremony doesn't involve them seeing or even speaking to each other. By the time they stand opposite one another in the chapel, ready to exchange vows, Steve's courage has fled and he’s half-tempted to flee the grounds and disappear into the wilderness for the rest of his life. 

Steve has spent half his life living in the shadow of his father’s death. He still feels like a child. Barely 20 years old, king for just two years, about to be married to a perfect stranger. 

Not for the first time, Steve wishes desperately that his mother were here. 

He knows, more than anything, that this is important. They have to see it through, they have to put their fears and insecurities aside for the good of their kingdoms. 

Bucky looks numb throughout the morning, reciting his vows mechanically. He either can’t or won’t meet Steve's eyes when they’re finally joined as king and his prince consort, mouth hard as Steve presses a chaste, perfunctory kiss to his lips. His fingers are cold in Steve’s hand as they leave the chapel, and when the crowd cheers, Steve’s sure he looks like he’s about to be sick.

At the reception, Bucky drinks heavily and eats nothing. By the time the interminable evening finally draws to a close, Steve is forced to lash Bucky’s horse to Steve’s mount, helping Bucky up into the saddle in front of Steve because he can’t be trusted to ride on his own.

Bucky is, at least, a congenial drunk, blissfully unaware of what's happening around him and sitting quietly until Steve mounts behind him. Concerned by the dangerous sway of Bucky’s body, Steve puts his arms around his waist to steady him and then grabs the reins, spurring on his horse to finally take them away from this endless day. 

After a few minutes, the cool night air seems to revive Bucky, and he stirs, letting out a giddy laugh. “Aren’t you so _strong_ , my king.”

After hours of wearing his own mask over his true emotions, Steve is deeply flustered by such empty-headed antics. “You’re just drunk,” he mumbles.

At least they don’t have far to go, tonight. 

An hour’s ride down the king’s highway, and they’ll reach the hidden forest path that leads to the private cottage where they'll spend the night, before the real honeymoon begins tomorrow.

Bucky laughs again, his head lolling onto Steve's shoulder as he turns to peer back at him, and even from this angle Steve can tell that he’s fluttering his eyelashes. 

"Bucky, I have to steer," he chides gently. 

"Oh, well, I’m so sorry," Bucky says, not sounding sorry at all. "My, you’re just so serious, aren’t you." He reaches up and pinches Steve's cheek playfully. "I’ve never met such a gentleman in my life, to so handily turn down sex. You'll give it to me tonight, won’t you? It's our _wedding night_ , we have to at least _consummate_."

"I'm not... you're _drunk_ ," Steve protests, cheeks burning.

"Oooh, what a strong moral code! You won't fuck me when I ask for it because I've had a few drinks, but you sure married me today, didn't you?" Bucky tugs sharply on Steve's ear. 

"Hey, ow!" says Steve, rubbing at his ear. Bucky sways wildly and nearly falls off in the five seconds Steve lets him go, and he has to grab him again. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

Bucky huffs, squirming back against Steve like a dog who's found someplace warm to curl up and go sleep. "Nothing, nothing... It's not as if I didn't marry you sober. So what's the difference? I suggested it, I was ready for it… But you refused to even share a bed with me. Is it begging you like? Would that finally get you to drop the act?"

Steve frowns, gripping the reins a little tighter. "That's not—I already told you why I won’t just—you know."

"Oh, right," drawls Bucky. "You want to _get to know me_."

Steve takes a steadying breath and doesn't respond. Bucky is mercifully quiet and he's hopeful that maybe he’s given up or perhaps gone to sleep. 

About ten minutes out from the cottage, though, Bucky leans back again, looking up at Steve, warm breath puffing against Steve's neck. "Please?" he breathes, just the barest hint of a whine to his voice. "I just... I really want it, Steve. I want you. Won't you please fuck me? I swear, I'll be good for you. Please, Steve, _please_."

"You don't know _what_ you want right now," Steve snaps, face burning. He urges the horses faster, eager to arrive at their destination. "My answer won't change: no. Not like this, not right now. Please respect that."

Bucky stiffens against him, spine straightening. He doesn't say a word for the rest of the ride. When they reach the cottage, Steve halts the horses and dismounts smoothly, immediately turning to help Bucky, but Bucky seems to have recovered very quickly, batting Steve's helping hand away as he gracefully leaps down from the horse.

When their eyes meet, his glare is icy, and then he turns away and stalks into the cottage. 

Steve takes a deep breath and lets him go, leading the horses into the stable, tying them off, putting blankets on them, and getting them fed and watered. 

In the cottage, Bucky stands next to the screen that divides the lavish four poster bed from the main living area, stripping out of his wedding clothes and traveling cloak. He doesn't spare Steve even a glance, not bothering to step behind the screen to afford himself more privacy, angrily shucking off his garments layer by layer in full view of the door.

Frozen in place like a fool, Steve fumbles to peel off his riding gloves, watching helplessly as Bucky’s jacket and shirt hit the floor. Bare to the waist now, Bucky reveals pale, lightly-freckled shoulders, a well-defined chest, and a flat belly. Steve follows the trail of dark hair from his navel to the waistband of tight leather hugging his narrow hips. 

"Like what you see?" Bucky snaps, voice so sharp that Steve flinches. "Will you deign to share the bed with me this time, or will my chivalrous king sleep on the floor?" He tucks his thumbs into his trousers, wriggling them down his hips. 

He's not wearing anything underneath. 

Steve swallows hard. "We can share the bed," he says faintly. 

Bucky rolls his eyes and kicks his trousers into the pile of discarded clothes, fully naked now. "Good night," he says, turning down the bed before he crawls under the covers and puts his back to Steve. He doesn't pull the covers up past his waist, leaving the long curve of his bare back on display for Steve.

With a heavy sigh, Steve continues to strip until he's in his undershirt and shorts. He ensures the fire is stoked to burn down for the night, then snuffs out the candles that were left burning when the cottage was prepared earlier in the evening for their arrival. 

When he finally crawls into bed, he is careful to keep his limbs to himself, but Bucky has definitely positioned himself toward the center. Steve resigns himself to being pressed up against Bucky's back, turning away from him to face the other direction. He can practically feel Bucky's scorn radiating through the darkness.

Steve wishes he knew what he’s doing wrong. 

He just thought it would be easier if they could both pretend that any part of this situation was normal. 

He _knows_ it’s not normal. Steve is the king of Aphekion. He knows that hatred of the Barnes lineage and all of Thespethra should practically be genetic. Antagonism is in their blood. 

There’s no denying that George Barnes, former king of Thespethra, took Steve’s father from him. 

Steve was raised in the shadow of war, and war has undoubtedly shaped him, but after his father’s death, Steve’s mother took the throne as regent, and her rule was fair and just. The only reason they’re here tonight, treaty tentatively binding them together, is because Sarah Rogers worked for a decade to build the foundations that would finally bring peace to both their kingdoms. 

Bucky was a child, just like Steve. They’re barely a year apart in age.

Steve's father died in battle, and the war is over now. Hopefully there will never be a war like that again.

For better or for worse, Bucky is Steve’s husband, now. Steve has to make it work. 

With that desperate hope burning in his mind, Steve drifts into a fitful sleep.

***


	3. storm.

  


In the morning, Steve wakes to the rich smell of food cooking over the fire.

Yawning, he pushes himself up onto his elbows and blinks the sleep out of his eyes. Bucky is fully dressed, crouched in front of the fireplace while he pokes a hot pan with a long fork. Steve can’t see what’s in the pan from here, but it smells meaty and savoury. Potatoes, probably. Eggs, definitely.

Steve rubs at his eyes. "Bucky? Where... did you get all that?"

Bucky looks over his shoulder, hitting Steve with the full force of his scorn as he rolls his eyes. "I can hunt, you know. Besides, there were some provisions in the larder. I thought you might like breakfast before we set out for the day."

"Thank you," Steve says sincerely, getting out of bed to pick up his clothes and dress himself. By the time he's done, Bucky has finished cooking, and he sets two plates down on the small table by the fire and waits for Steve to join him before he sits down. 

He picks up the fork provided to him and then hesitates, looking to Bucky. He doesn't want to be rude—

"I didn't poison it, you know. You can eat without waiting for me to take a bite," says Bucky. His expression is frustratingly neutral, and Steve gets no indication of his feelings behind the statement. Frustration? Annoyance? Amusement?

Well, so much for not being rude.

They mostly eat in silence, until Steve is scraping up the last delicious crispy bits of potato and says, quietly, "I hope that we can still have a nice time together."

Bucky glances at him through his lashes and continues to betray nothing with his expression. "Of course, my King."

Steve feels like he's mocking him, whenever he uses a title instead of his name, but there's nothing mocking in his _tone_ , just the words themselves. He chooses not to mention it, this time. "I just mean... after last night..."

"I may have had a bit too much wine," Bucky says shortly. "If I was inappropriate, I apologize. I won't presume to try to have sex with my husband again. At least, not until we get to _know_ each other. I look forward to tramping around in the countryside with you until we've suitably bonded."

Steve grinds his teeth a little. No one... talks to him like this, aside from perhaps his closest advisor and longtime friend, and even then, it's with an air of fondness. Certainly not this near-contempt. 

He doesn't really know what to _do_. He's offended Bucky by trying to be polite, and Bucky is _sustaining_ that anger like someone might stoke a fire on a cold night. "Are you ready to go?" he asks, instead of commenting on Bucky's words at all.

“Of course, I would never want to delay our trip," says Bucky, abruptly getting to his feet and collecting their plates. When Steve manages to gather himself, Bucky’s already scraped them clean and is putting on his cloak, out the door before Steve can muster a response. 

"Great," Steve says to no one, following behind. 

Once they get on the road, it's a little easier. 

They don't talk a lot at first, both concentrating on the ride towards their next destination. Steve is taking them south, away from the capital, and deeper into the wooded countryside. 

"We’ll be staying at a country estate that my family has visited for decades," Steve explains, speaking for the first time in about an hour as they crest a gentle hill. "We can ride and hunt and fish. There's a beautiful garden and a library in the manor. Then, in a few days, we can head toward the coast, and spend a few days at the Crown’s shorefront property."

Bucky nods, glancing over at Steve as they carry on down the road at a sedate pace. "And how many estates belong to the Crown, exactly?"

Steve shrugs. "At least ten that are kept ready for visits, dotted throughout the kingdom. There are others, surely, but they are on loan or being rented out."

"Oh, I see. And how are all of these estates maintained? That seems like a lot of tax money to spend on homes that are empty most of the time," Bucky says, with an air of innocence. "Your subjects must be doing very well for themselves."

Steve looks over, frankly a little stunned. It is a genuine mystery whether Bucky is trying to charm him or insult him. Or both. "Excuse me?"

"Hmm?" says Bucky, and he gives Steve a big, brainless smile, and then digs his heels into his horse's belly and takes off down the path, laughing. 

"What the fuck?" mumbles Steve, before spurring his own horse on to catch up. They gallop, for a little while, but Bucky slows his horse and lets Steve pass him, and when Steve finally pulls level with him, Bucky is staring straight ahead, down the path, like the previous conversation and the fact that Bucky _rode away_ to escape it didn't even happen.

"Absolutely beautiful countryside," Bucky says to him. "I love it."

"Oh," says Steve, taken aback. "That's... I'm glad. It's only a few more hours' ride to the estate."

After that baffling exchange, they resume the previous quiet the remainder of the journey. The weather is turning gray, chilly in the heavy, damp way that indicates a coming snowfall; Bucky looks particularly beautiful, and under the bright, overcast sky, his eyes are more of a pale blue than gray, lips red from the cold as his breaths puff out in visible clouds.

When the sprawling estate finally appears on the horizon, Bucky mumbles, "Hell, that's big," and then nudges his horse and clucks his tongue, calling out, "Race you!" to Steve as he surges ahead.

Steve is caught off guard by a laugh. He can't help it. Bucky is—something else entirely from what he expected, and he’s hard-pressed to pin him down, other than finding him confounding and frustrating and fickle. With a loud curse, Steve spurs his own stallion into action and takes off after Bucky, barely managing to pull even with him as they gallop straight up to the stables. 

They pull to a stop and Bucky is grinning at him, perhaps for the first time. He looks genuinely happy, breathing heavily and patting his horse on the neck. He walks him in circles to cool down, and says, "Good race. Sorry I beat you, my king."

Steve's jaw drops. "We tied!" 

"We did not, I clearly arrived before you!” Bucky calls. “You only caught up when I slowed to stop." He's smirking, and Steve is confronted with the strange urge to pull Bucky down and kiss it right off his face. 

Instead, he circles his own horse several laps, dismounting smoothly into the yard. "You can't set the finish line after the race is complete!"

"I didn't. I set it well before. It's not my fault you didn't ask what it was." Bucky’s expression is sly, playful, and wholly unlike the artifice he’s projected previously. 

The stableboy appears with a swift bow, waiting to take their reins, and Steve hands them off with a kind word before turning toward the manor. "I'm hungry. Come inside and we'll see what they've planned for our arrival."

"What, you don't want to stay out here and eat a little crow?" Bucky asks sweetly. “I didn’t think you’d be such a poor loser for someone so serious!” 

Beside them, the stableboy’s eyes go wide, and he ducks his head, clearly unused to seeing someone talk to his _king_ like that. 

"My dear husband," Steve grits out stiffly, suddenly embarrassed for them both. "Please come down off your horse and allow me to show you to our rooms. You're clearly tired."

It's a mistake. Steve knows it before he’s even finished speaking. 

The good humour disappears off Bucky's face as quickly as it arrived, and he sets his jaw, purses his lips, and jumps smoothly off his horse, handing the reins off to the stableboy and striding across the yard. Again, he walks ahead of Steve, until he reaches the entrance and halts, waiting for Steve to catch up. Despite the huff he's indulging in, he's not angry enough to barge into an unfamiliar residence on his own, even if they _are_ married.

"Follow me," Steve says quietly, and leads Bucky inside. 

While the cottage from the night before was much more quaint accommodation, the country estate is functionally a small-scale palace. It is fully staffed year-round, and has fifteen bedrooms, not including the spacious servants' quarters. Bucky and Steve will only be occupying the main bedroom, although now Steve is beginning to wonder if he should offer Bucky his own suite while they’re here. 

Taking them upstairs, Steve pushes open the double doors and crosses the room to pull back the curtains. The sky is still a morose, heavy gray, but none of the lamps have been lit yet inside, and the light is much-needed. 

"How long did you say we’re going to stay here?" asks Bucky, hovering in the doorway. 

"A few days," says Steve. "We could go hunting tomorrow... or just for a ride. Explore the countryside."

"It's going to snow," says Bucky, joining Steve to stand near the window, his eyes on the sky. 

Steve shrugs. "There are plenty of furs. We'll be warm enough. Unless you'd rather stay in."

"No," says Bucky frankly. "Couldn't stand to be cooped up indoors." The _with you_ is heavily implied. Maybe Bucky finds him easier to take when they're silent on horseback for hours at a time.

"Then we'll set out in the morning. Should I have them prepare us for a hunt or just a ride?" he asks. Best to let Bucky have as much choice as he can offer. That's clearly a sticking point for him. 

"A ride will be fine. If the weather does worsen, I don't want to worry about dragging anything back with us." 

He's still looking out the window when Steve excuses himself to meet with the estate staff.

After arranging everything they’ll need for their ride tomorrow, Steve stops in at the kitchens to inquire about dinner. 

Bucky seemed to enjoy the quiet meal they had alone together on the first night, as much as Bucky ever seems to enjoy anything, so Steve asks the staff to bring dinner up to the small dining alcove in their room, rather than setting up the large and elaborate dining hall for an awkward formal meal. 

He finds himself whiling away time checking in on various household matters that absolutely don’t require his attention as he avoids Bucky, before he finally gives in and returns to their chambers. 

When he walks in, the main room is empty. Steve shuts the door, entering cautiously and confirming that Bucky doesn’t seem to be present. He frowns. "...Bucky?"

"In here, my King.”

Ah. A return to the overly formal and painfully neutral form of address that somehow still manages to mock Steve. 

Bucky’s voice floats out from the suite’s bathroom, but the door is wide open, so Steve walks in to find that Bucky is— 

Entirely naked. 

He’s sprawled out comfortably in the steaming marble tub, his feet propped up against the side, ankles crossed. Steve stops short and stares. "...Oh."

Bucky looks up at him, lifting an eyebrow. "Did you need something?"

Steve clears his throat. "No, I... just wanted to let you know that dinner will be served in our rooms tonight, in an hour."

"Thank you," says Bucky, staring at Steve expectantly. 

Steve finds himself rooted to the spot. The desire that crashes through him is surprising but wholly unwelcome; he imagines what it would be like to take off his clothes, climb into his new husband’s lap, and kiss him. What it would be like to abandon stiff propriety and yield to the emotions burning between them, try to soothe the discomfort of their circumstances through mutual comfort. 

Bucky is bare to him, just like when he shed his clothes in front of Steve last night, and he's even more tempting when he’s ruddy pink and wet, rivulets of water streaming down his chest and droplets clinging to his arms. 

The moment passes and Steve squares his shoulders. "I'll let you return to your bath."

Before Bucky can reply, Steve retreats to the main bedroom, sitting at his desk and grabbing the nearest book in the desperate hope of pretending he's busy. 

Bucky emerges about twenty minutes later, wearing a silk robe while he carefully dries his hair with a towel. He doesn't comment on Steve's exit, flopping down on a chaise lounge and putting his bare legs up. 

Eventually, Steve gets up to have his own perfunctory bath. Since it looks like Bucky is disinclined to put clothes on, he dresses in his own robe to put them on equal footing. Bucky looks him up and down when he sees him, eyes dragging down any bared skin, something genuinely hungry in his eyes before he closes off his expression. 

When their dinner is served in the side room, Steve clears his throat and gestures broadly. “Join me?”

“Of course, my King,” says Bucky, tone and gaze demure, though Steve is no longer fooled.

He opens the door and holds it for Bucky as he passes. The bright, floral scent of his clean hair is even more tempting than the rich smell of dinner, and Steve is once again gutted by the urge to take him by the wrist and pull him in, bury his face against Bucky’s neck and _breathe_. He gives himself a shake and follows, pulling out Bucky’s chair for him. 

When they’re seated, Bucky takes a breath and says, “I’m looking forward to our ride tomorrow.”

Steve can’t help staring at him. It feels like the first time Bucky has said something to him that isn’t loaded with innuendo or judgement. As far as Steve can tell, he is sincere. 

“Oh,” says Steve. “Yes, me too. This is one of my favorite places to be. I have a lot of good memories here with my family, when I was a child.”

“With your father?” asks Bucky, his tone and expression betraying nothing.

Steve nods slowly, very aware that Bucky is watching carefully for any kind of reaction. "With him, and my mother. This is where my father taught me to hunt."

"That must have been exciting."

Steve takes a breath. "Are you trying to provoke a response?"

"That's generally what one expects in a conversation." 

"I meant specifically about my father," Steve huffs.

Bucky’s face remains devoid of expression. He hasn't been this careful with his reactions at all over the last few days. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"You're trying to gauge how I feel about you, in the context of our family history. You know," he drawls, gesturing between them with his soup spoon. "The part of our history where, during the war, your father killed mine."

Bucky’s reaction is muted, but the fear gleaming in his eyes is unmistakable, and his shoulders tense, like he's readying himself to stand. "And?" hedges Bucky. 

"We were children,” Steve says evenly, keeping his own posture relaxed. He takes a sip of his soup. “I was a child. You were a child."

Bucky doesn't say anything. His eyes are wide, and he is very still. 

"I doubt you were aware of what it meant until you were older. Your father killed an adversary. There are casualties in war between kingdoms."

Bucky’s shoulders hitch in a shrug. His face has lost color. 

"I'm not holding it against you," continues Steve.

"You could," challenges Bucky, the words bursting out of him with urgency. This is the conversation he’s been waiting to have. "No one would blame you. It's your prerogative."

Steve meets his gaze boldly. “It is, which is why I’m choosing not to hold it against you or anyone else in your family. Your father is dead now, too,” he says, not unkindly. “If there ever was someone I might hold it against, it’s him. But it was war, and they entered into the fight on equal footing, both understanding what might happen. It’s why I’m choosing peace now that it’s been offered, because I know what war costs. I have no interest in repeating their mistakes.”

Bucky’s gaze finally drops, but he doesn’t respond directly. Whatever opinion he has of Steve’s words is kept to himself. He hasn’t even picked up his utensils yet, instead clutching his hands anxiously, and the glimmer of gold as he worries the bracelet on his wrist catches Steve’s eye again. 

“That’s very pretty,” Steve murmurs, trying to change the subject. 

Bucky’s head snaps up, eyes wide, but as he searches Steve’s face for—what? A motive? After a moment, he seems to relax. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “It’s nothing. Just a family heirloom.” He drops his left hand into his lap, out of sight, picking up his spoon with his right. 

Steve mirrors him, focusing on his soup again, and for a couple of minutes they eat in silence. 

“This is delicious,” says Bucky, just as Steve is preparing to end the awkwardness himself. “It tastes—fresh. Well-seasoned.” 

Steve knows that Thespethra is mountainous and lacking in agriculture, so he latches onto the topic. “The food is all locally grown. There’s a large farm on this estate as well. Most of the produce is sold to maintain the grounds and pay those that work here. All of the money earned goes right back into the local economy, not back to the Crown. Whatever food is left over is either used by the staff or donated to the surrounding area.”

“So, the estate isn’t maintained with taxes,” replies Bucky.

“No, not at all.”

Bucky is almost sullen as he nods, but he doesn't say anything else. There's not much he _can_ say to that, if he was looking to nitpick about logistics. 

They keep eating in semi-awkward silence. Every so often, Bucky will offer a benign comment, Steve will respond with a benign answer, and so it continues until the end of the meal. 

After dinner, Steve thinks of offering a tour, but they're both underdressed and it's too late in the evening to suggest getting ready for anything other than bed.

They drift off back to back, Steve wondering if they'll ever find common ground.

👑❄️👑

He wakes, abruptly, in the pitch darkness, some undefined time later.

It's quiet, and he's unsure what woke him, until the mattress trembles minutely and he hears the muffled but telltale hitch of a sob.

Next to him, Bucky is crying.

Steve lays completely still, not sure of what he should do or say, if anything at all. Bucky has been so prickly. What if he perceives action from Steve as mocking, or judgmental? He doesn’t want to embarrass him. 

Still, though. The longer he lays there and listens to Bucky cry, the more his heart breaks. 

Carefully, he turns over until he’s facing Bucky, then reaches out, hand just barely touching Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky freezes immediately, and it’s clear he’s trying to muffle his sobs even more. 

“Bucky?” whispers Steve, trying to be as gentle as he can. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s _wrong_?” asks Bucky, voice thick. The scorn is heavy in his tone. His body shakes with another sob. “N-nothing. Nothing at all, my King. I’m with you, after all.”

Steve isn’t sure what he’s done to earn the venom in Bucky’s voice, but this is the most open Bucky’s ever been with him. Nothing has felt right since Bucky’s arrival and Steve’s heart is heavy with it. “Bucky, did someone force you to agree to this marriage? If someone told you you didn’t have a choice, they were wrong. This isn’t the only path to peace. We can—”

“No!” cries Bucky, all the anger gone under a rush of worry. He rolls over, so they’re facing each other in the darkness. “No, I do want to be here. I chose it. I’ve been _trying_ , and you keep—you keep rejecting me. I want to be here!”

"Okay," says Steve hurriedly. He wants to give comfort, wants to put Bucky at ease. Bucky doesn't resist as Steve cups his cheek, stroking with his thumb, and with his other hand, Steve takes Bucky's, winding their fingers together to ground him. "I believe you, I do."

Bucky goes still, closing his eyes, brow furrowed. "I am _trying_ ," he repeats shakily. 

"I know," says Steve, because Bucky is definitely trying at something, even if Steve doesn't understand what that is. "It's okay, I know it's hard to leave your home. You can talk to me. I'm not rejecting you, Bucky, I just genuinely wanted to get to know you first. I don't know what you expected, but I'm a patient man." He pauses, suddenly rueful. "I'm not, actually, but I can be, when it counts. I think you count. Let me court you, please."

"We're already married," Bucky says plaintively, his voice cracking. He’s still crying softly. “You don’t need to _court_ me.”

"That was the arrangement, but it doesn't have to dictate our relationship. I'd like to _have_ a relationship."

"You really mean that," Bucky mumbles. "You really do. I thought... I don't know what I thought. That my willingness was being tested."

"I don't like mind games," says Steve. "I won’t play them."

Bucky sniffles, actively calming down as he holds tight to Steve’s hand. After a little while, he whispers, “No one has touched me in months.”

Steve’s heart pounds against his ribs. “Not even—not at all?”

Bucky makes a small, miserable noise. “No.”

Steve bites his lip and takes a chance. “Bucky, what happened to your sister?”

A motion in the darkness, of Bucky shaking his head hard. “I don’t know.”

Steve lets out a soft sigh. “I can touch you. This isn’t—it doesn’t have to be about—I just want to help you feel better. Okay? Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Bucky says. 

“I can hold you. I would love to do that. Will you let me?”

“ _Yes_.”

Steve pulls him into his arms, tucking him against Steve’s body. Bucky lets out another little sob, turning his face into Steve’s chest and clinging onto him.

Steve is broader in the shoulders than Bucky, who is lean and slender, and he fits easily into Steve's arms as he embraces him tightly. For a while, Bucky trembles against him, choking out sobs or sniffles as he hides his face in Steve's chest. Steve hums softly, chin tucked in Bucky's soft hair, stroking his back. 

He settles eventually, his breathing evening out, and Steve relaxes his grip but doesn't let go of him. 

Bucky sleeps deeply, but it takes longer for sleep to claim Steve from his troubled thoughts.

👑❄️👑

In the morning, Steve wakes again to Bucky already out of bed, rifling through his bags to collect his winter gear.

"I've been down to the kitchens," he says briskly, when he sees that Steve is awake. "Breakfast will be up in ten minutes. They're also packing two day's rations for us, just in case. I've taken the liberty of packing our saddlebags, check them over if you like. There are extra blankets, flint, knives..." He waves a hand dismissively. "It's not snowing yet, but the sky is heavy with it."

"How long have you been awake?" Steve asks slowly, fighting a yawn. 

Bucky shrugs. "A little while. Just thought I could be productive."

Steve pushes himself out of bed and pads over to Bucky. He reaches out slowly, telegraphing his intention, and when Bucky doesn’t jerk away, he takes his hand and draws him close until he can hook an arm around him and press a kiss to his temple. “Thank you.”

Bucky is stiff at first, but he relaxes into Steve, breath catching a bit. He sounds very unsure as he mumbles a sullen, “You’re welcome.”

Steve smiles and pulls away, humming under his breath as he dresses for the day. 

They eat breakfast in relative silence and head out to the stables. It’s brisk, but not overwhelmingly cold, and they’re appropriately dressed for the weather, breath puffing out in clouds as they prepare the horses. 

Steve leads them into the woods, over a sloping hill, toward a clearing he’s familiar with. It’s very picturesque, with a fast-running stream and large mossy rocks, alongside a small pond. The memorial stands near a bench that’s been here longer than Steve’s been alive. 

While his mother is buried in the royal crypt alongside his father, open for public visits, this is a private place. Steve built his own place to remember her, where he could sit along with his thoughts to talk with her, and he feels close to her here.

No one else has been here. He’s never wanted to share this place before, but he wants Bucky to understand that Steve meant what he said. He wants them to build a relationship, and for that to happen, Bucky has to get to know all of him.

Bucky has kept his horse in pace next to Steve's unless the path narrowed, falling back to follow in those instances, so as Steve slows to a stop, Bucky halts alongside him and asks, "Where are we?"

"A memorial," replies Steve, getting down off his horse. Bucky mirrors him, tying off his horse on a nearby branch. 

"Oh?" Bucky comes to stand next to Steve, looking around the clearing. "For your—father?"

"My mother," says Steve, and he takes Bucky's hand and brings him over. "She got ill," he says shortly. "Passed away a few winters ago. This is my private place. I come and sit and catch her up on what's going on."

"Oh," says Bucky softly. "If you wanted some time..."

"No. I wanted to share it with you," Steve says gently. "She'd—She would want to meet you. She worked so hard for peace. This union would make her proud."

Bucky still looks uncertain, his mouth an unhappy line, but he steps forward and bows respectfully.

Here, they sit and have their lunch, enjoying the sights and sounds of the forest. 

It's quiet but for the occasional scurry of small animals still scrounging for food before the onset of winter. The leaves have fallen, blanketing the forest floor in darkening reds and oranges and yellows, blowing across the pond, and it’s cold enough for a thin layer of ice to have formed overnight, spider webs of frost covering the surface of the water. Steve puts a thick blanket down on the ground and sits, patting the space next to him, and Bucky joins him as Steve unpacks their meal. 

"What was your mother like?" asks Bucky.

Steve smiles, staring out across the pond. "She was kind. I know that sounds so simple, but she was the kindest person I ever knew. She believed that everyone deserved to be treated with respect and dignity. She would take me every Sunday after church to help prepare meals for the less fortunate. She worked tirelessly with orphanages and hospitals...."

"She sounds like someone I would have liked to know. I'm sorry she's gone."

Steve thinks about why she's gone. He thinks about how he's able to be here now, with Bucky, and then takes a slow breath. He wants to tell Bucky the story of how his mother passed away, to share the hope and kindness she left in him, for him, but he doesn’t know if they're ready for that yet. Someday, he's sure, but not today. "Me too."

The snow begins falling not long after. 

Steve frowns up at the sky. "I suppose our day will be cut short, as you predicted. Tomorrow, we can go back out, once the storm has settled, maybe do a little hunting."

Bucky shivers as a particularly harsh gust of wind rolls through. "If it warms up. It's getting colder than I would have expected."

The light has largely faded, despite it still being early afternoon, and the sky is heavy with angry gray clouds. Steve didn’t anticipate a blizzard, but as the storm builds, worry trickles in. “Yes, it's unusually chilly, especially for the first snow of the season. We should hurry."

They pack up the horses and mount up, but the storm has kicked up considerably in the short time it took them to get ready. The ground is already covered in a fine layer of snow, and the wind has started howling through the trees. 

"Something isn't right!" calls Bucky as they coax the horses back onto the trail, shielding his eyes from the icy gale. 

“You’re right," agrees Steve, his stomach churning uneasily. "I don’t think this storm is natural."

"What should we do?" calls Bucky, his horse tossing its head uneasily. 

Steve hesitates. They're about 20 miles from the estate, after riding steadily for nearly three and a half hours. They can't make it back in weather this violent, which means they need shelter. The closet cabin Steve can think of is maybe a mile away, but the path is more treacherous, following a steep dip into a river valley on one side and dense forest on the other. Maybe the forest will cut the wind, though. 

"Follow me, stay close behind," Steve says, raising his voice over the wind. "I'm going to guide us to shelter!"

Bucky nods, clutching the reins rightly, so Steve spurs his stallion into a trot, taking them further into the woods. 

It's slow going. 

In normal conditions, they'd reach the cabin in twenty to thirty minutes at a careful trot on the path, but it's taken them twice that time to get halfway. The forest has opened up on one side of the path into a steep, rocky gorge, while the bushes and trees on the other side of them are dense foliage. The snow is piling up quickly, visibility dropping to zero in the biting, blinding wind. Steve keeps glancing back to check that Bucky is still behind him, relieved each time to find him plodding along several feet behind Steve. 

Later, he'll wonder what he could have done to prevent it, but there is no warning. 

Steve glances back to check on Bucky just as a pheasant bursts from the foliage between their horses with a terrified squawk. 

One bird would be enough to spook Bucky's already skittish horse, but an owl follows seconds later, arcing up into the sky directly in front of the horse's nose, and Bucky's mare rears back with a screaming whinny. 

Keeping hold of the reins with frozen fingers is next to impossible, and Steve can only watch with horror as Bucky is thrown to the icy trail. 

He hits the ground close to the edge, the drift seeming to cushion him a little, but his mare is still rearing, dancing back in fear and panic without her rider to calm her, and Bucky's short scream pierces the air as she tramples over him. 

The wind carries Steve’s helpless voice into the ravine.

***


	4. heart.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please mind the warning for hunting and animal death in this chapter.

  


Steve reacts as quickly as he can, calming his own startled horse and swiftly dismounting.

He ties his stallion's reins off to a branch and then makes soothing noises as he cautiously approaches Bucky’s mare, snagging her reins and coaxing her to walk forward, away from Bucky.

On the ground, Bucky is now silent, the echo of his pained scream still bouncing around Steve’s head. 

Horses taken care of, Steve rushes to him, as he gets close, he swallows at the sight of red splashed in the snow all around him. Bucky is flat on his back, mouth open in sustained shock; little gasps escape him, like he can't take in a full breath.

"Bucky?” breathes Steve, kneeling down next to him, hands hovering uncertainly over his body. “Bucky, can you hear me? Can you speak?"

"My—my arm,” he gasps, eyes wild as he stares up at the sky. “I can't feel—" Bucky's voice cracks, panicked and unsure.

Trying desperately to still the shake in his hands, Steve reaches for Bucky’s left arm. The dark wool of Bucky's coat is wet with blood, and carefully, Steve starts to peel it back. He's seen vicious injuries before, and this is—this is bad. 

Bucky's arm is crushed, blood and flesh and bone a mangled horror. Steve knows enough to guess his arm can’t be saved by anything short of powerful magic, but Steve _can_ save his life. 

"Bucky, I'm going to have to tie a tourniquet. You're losing too much blood and I can't stop it any other way."

"No—no, I can't—” Bucky gasps. “I can't, I can't—my arm, my—my bracelet—" He’s in shock, his complexion pale and eyes unfocused. 

Gritting his teeth, Steve goes to the horses, finding rope in the saddlebags. 

"This might hurt. Just keep breathing," he instructs, dropping back down next to Bucky and unwinding the rope. 

Bucky doesn’t seem to be listening, head lolling in the snow, his wide eyes gleaming with tears. Steve works quickly, looping the rope up below Bucky’s shoulder, where he can tell the arm is still mostly intact. He uses a stick to help him twist the ends, tighter and tighter until Bucky screams pitifully and passes out.

The storm continues to rage, but Steve pushes through. When he has the rope secured, he retrieves the horses, tying Bucky’s mare to his stallion. Then he scoops Bucky carefully into his arms and carries him to Steve’s mount. Getting him up into the saddle is a challenge, but Steve settles him there and scrambles up behind him, wrapping his arms around Bucky’s waist. He holds him close as the spurs on his horse, resuming their journey to the cabin.

By the time they arrive, a snow drift has piled up in front of the door. 

Steve dismounts first, pulling Bucky down into his arms and apologizing softly when Bucky makes a pained sound. The cabin door, mercifully, opens easily. Steve is careless with the threshold, kicking loose snow onto the floorboards as he carries Bucky inside. 

He lays Bucky down on the pile of furs by the fireplace, then sprints back outside to deal with the horses. He herds them into the covered lean-to stable, covering them in blankets and filling their feed bags. It’s cold in here, but as soon as he gets the fire going inside, the stable will warm up, so he shuts the door behind them to keep out the wind. 

Inside the cabin, Bucky hasn't moved. He's breathing steadily, shallow and ragged, and once Steve has determined that Bucky doesn't require his immediate attention, he focuses on getting a fire going and then melting snow in a pot for more water. 

With the fire roaring, the cabin secure against the howling storm, Steve finally strips Bucky out of his frozen, sodden clothes as gently as he can, wrapping him in blankets and furs on the hearth as the room begins to heat up. 

"Can't lose my arm," mumbles Bucky, his eyes still closed, brow furrowed. "Can't... can't, Steve, please, please don't. Please don’t kill me, I swear I didn’t want to. Please don't kill me..."

"I am trying to _save_ you," protests Steve, stung by the mistrust. "I didn't do this, Bucky. It was an accident. We're going to fix this. The healer will fix this, you just have to hold on until we can get back."

"My bracelet," groans Bucky. "Where is it?"

Gut churning with worry, Steve frowns. He has of course noticed the thin, delicate gold band Bucky wears around his left wrist, but he doesn't want to disturb Bucky's arm more than he has to, beyond checking the tourniquet, but judging by the damage to Bucky’s arm, the bracelet must have shattered under the horse's hooves. There is nothing around Bucky's crushed wrist.

“It’s okay, Buck,” he murmurs gently. “It’s fine, don’t worry about that.”

The wind whistles and roars outside, battering at the walls and making the roof rattle and rain dust down upon them, but it holds, as do the shutters and door. 

Whatever this is—Steve doesn’t believe it’s an accident. This storm isn’t natural. 

Steve strips the linens off the old cot along the wall and shakes out the dust, washing it clean and hanging it to dry over the fire. Once he’s freshened the bucket of water, he cleans the arm as best he can, and fashions the dried linen into a rudimentary sling. 

The worst part, by far, is pulling it against Bucky's body and pinning his arm against his chest with the fabric. Bucky cries and fights him weakly, shaking his head. "No, no, please, my sister—please don't kill me, I have to—have to save her—"

"Shh," Steve soothes, tears pricking at his eyes as he firmly wraps Bucky’s arm. He's delirious with pain and blood loss, and there's nothing else Steve can do for him now. "Shh, you're safe. I won't let you die, I swear. Wouldn't hurt you, Buck. Get some sleep, it's okay. You’re safe."

Bucky carries on for a little while longer, but in the end, he succumbs to his exhaustion and injuries enough to sleep. With a shaky sigh, Steve sets all their outer clothes out to dry, including his own, and adds more wood to the fire. 

Giving into his own fatigue, Steve curls up under the furs with Bucky to wait out the storm.

👑❄️👑

It's a miserable night.

Steve can barely sleep, too terrified to do more than snatch brief unsettled naps in case he wakes up to Bucky still and cold and unbreathing. Instead, he dozes fitfully, checking on Bucky every half hour, stoking the fire, giving Bucky water, checking his forehead for fever. 

When he realises how hungry he is, he devours some of their rations, but mostly he just lies close, keeping an arm around Bucky, listening to him breathe, soothing him when he mumbles and stirs in his sleep. The wind finally dies a few hours before dawn, and Steve untangles himself from their nest long enough to peer out the window and see that it has finally stopped snowing.

He's not sure what to do in the morning. 

They have to ride back to the estate, because Bucky needs a healer, but Steve has an extra horse to deal with, as well as several feet of snow, both of which will slow them down. The rough ride will likely jar and jostle Bucky, and Steve doesn’t want to risk hurting him further. 

Steve has been turning it over in his mind for hours, dawn breaking pale and watery over the horizon, when he is startled out of his tense, anxious planning by three hard raps on the door. 

Scrambling up, he shushes Bucky, grabbing a knife from his boot and sliding it into the sleeve of his undershirt. Creeping to the door, he calls out, "Who's there?"

"A weary traveler,” calls back a clear, familiar voice. “With help to offer a desperate king.”

Steve almost collapses with relief. He unlocks the door and pulls it open to find Natasha on the other side, her fiery hair bright against the white backdrop of the snow, wrapped from head to foot in a thick black fur cloak. 

"Natasha," he breathes, staggering under the weight of his gratitude. "How—what—"

Her red lips quirk in a smile. "Just passing through," she says briskly, pushing past him into the cabin. "I could practically hear your thoughts, you were worrying so loudly."

"When did you return to Aphekion?" he asks helplessly. He can’t believe she’s here, and while half of him is worried this is a cruel trick, or a hallucination, the rest of him feels only relief. 

The last time Steve saw Natasha, he was young and sickly and frail, and she told him he had the heart of a lion. 

“I don’t know,” she says frankly, raising green eyes to his. She looks like she hasn’t aged a day. “Yesterday? Or perhaps last year… Truthfully, young king, it doesn’t matter when. I knew I’d need to be here today, and so here I am. I didn't know it would be for _you_ , though..." She looks around the room, her gaze falling to Bucky. "What have we here?"

Steve startles back to life, turning his attention to Bucky. "My new husband. Bucky. The storm slowed us down, and his horse spooked and threw him... trampled his arm. I did what I could, but— "

"You did well. You kept him alive," Natasha says warmly, kneeling next to Bucky. She combs her fingers through his damp hair and he groans softly. "Hmm, a handsome prince in need of rescuing. It seems this always happens when we meet, Steve."

"Natasha, please,” he begs, kneeling down on the hearth on Bucky’s other side. “Can you help him? I was going to try to get him back to the estate, to the royal healer, but—"

“No,” she interrupts. "The journey would surely kill him. No, it’s better to stay right here. I can help him. But I need something," she says, looking up at him with a grave expression. 

"Anything." The word resonates within him, right down to his bones. He’d give anything to help Bucky. 

Natasha smiles at him, lip quirked, and cups his cheek, thumb brushing over Steve’s skin. “You mean that. You’d give your life, if I asked.” She sighs. “Just like your mother.” 

Steve’s eyes fill with tears and he sets his jaw and squares his shoulders, nodding.

“I require nothing that drastic,” she says, raising an eyebrow. "But your commitment is adorable. Go hunting. The snow is fresh, and you’ll find tracks. Bring me the heart of a mountain lion. Make sure you thank him for his sacrifice."

Steve nods, already standing. "You'll watch over him?"

Natasha gazes steadily back at him. "Of course. Hurry, now."

Steve pulls on dry clothes, wrapping up in his big coat, gloves, and scarf. Pulling his bow and quiver onto his back, he arms himself with two knives in addition to the one he carries in his boot and heads out into the still dawn.

The forest is silent as Steve marches confidently through the snow.

He knows this area, knows the likely caves and hollows where big predators make their homes, and he pushes his worry and anxiety to the back of his mind as he focuses fully on his task. 

The first step is relatively easy; he pins down two rabbits with his bow; snaps their spines and slits their throats, whispering a soft apology as he drains their blood onto the snow and creates a trail with it. When he finds a likely clearing, he guts the rabbits from nose to tail and leaves their bodies on the ground before he climbs a sturdy tree and settles in to wait. 

He's huddled in the branches for maybe half an hour before he spots the movement below. 

It's a juvenile lion, maybe a year old, long-legged and gangly, padding through the snow on huge, soft feet. Steve waits until he’s followed the trail of blood and crouched over the bodies, crunching them whole, before he acts. For a moment, he’s frozen by the guilt in his heart, holding his breath as he draws his bow and notches an arrow, aiming at the base of the lion's skull. 

Whatever wild magic Natasha brought with her sees Steve's arrow fly true, without a hint of wind. 

It sinks into the lion's skull, his body jerking as nerves and spine are severed, and Steve drops instantly out of the tree to land on top of it, pulling out his knife to swiftly finish the job. 

"I'm so sorry," he whispers, stroking the beast's head. He presses his forehead to the soft space between his ears, breathing out his prayer of gratitude. "Thank you. Thank you for your sacrifice."

Turning the lion's body over, he opens the chest and delicately removes the heart, staining the snow and his gloves crimson. He wraps the heart in his cloak and makes his way back to the cabin. 

He's about to burst through the door when it swings open instead, narrowly missing the tip of his nose. 

"Heart," says Nastasha, holding out her bare hand. Steve gives it to her. "Wait out here," she says shortly, slamming the door in his face.

Steve shivers out front for long minutes, frustrated to not be inside with her, with _Bucky_ , but he learned long ago to respect magic users. They may not be all-powerful but they are formidable, Natasha more than most. He trusts her.

After a while, he gives up waiting directly in front of the door and goes to see the horses, making sure they're fed and watered, brushed down and warm as possible. He's just finishing up when the front door swings open, Natasha striding out. 

Steve scrambles over, stumbling through the knee-high snow. "Is he okay?" 

"His arm is healed, and he will live. Your dear prince will remain with you," Natasha says. 

He lets out a deep breath, all his adrenalin sweeping out of his body and leaving him cold and shaky. "Thank you so much. I don't know what I would have done. I—"

Natasha takes his hand and squeezes it. “I also bear a warning.”

Steve falters. “Natasha—”

“Twofold,” she says firmly, speaking over him. “Listen carefully. His arm is healed, but he will live with the injury for the rest of his life. It will be stiff, it may ache and pain him in poor weather. He will need to be careful, picking things up. The feeling may not return fully.”

Steve exhales. “I understand. Thank you.”

“And—”

Steve’s heart sinks. “More?”

Natasha cocks her head, her grip firm. “Your prince was wreathed in dark magic. Clinging to him, like a parasite. I banished the remaining traces which plagued him, but someone was keeping a close watch on him. On both of you. Whatever was carrying the curse has been destroyed."

"His bracelet," whispers Steve, gut churning. "He kept... I thought it was delirium, but he spoke of a gold bracelet he wore... I assume it was lost in the accident. He also mentioned his missing sister, the queen."

Natasha hums and glances back at the quiet cabin. "A darkness has lingered over the Thespethran Royal Family for years. I have tried to root it out many times, but it moves, changes, shifts..."

Steve shivers. "I'll be mindful. He needs help. Something hasn't been right with him since he arrived. He's been fearful. Veiled."

Natasha turns to look at Steve, green eyes gleaming like shards of gemstone in the pale morning light. "Take care of him and take care of yourself. If you need me, find a raven and whisper my name."

"Thank you," says Steve earnestly. "Natasha, I'm in your debt."

"Oh, no, don't say that," she says, lip quirking in a faint smile. "Words like that could doom you. I don't require payment, beyond a warm place to sleep if I pass through near the palace in the future."

"Of course," Steve says, taking both her hands in his. They're clean, somehow, not a drop of blood on her. "Safe travels."

"You, too," she says, and they bow to each other, Steve dropping her hands as she turns away and walks into the woods, her long fur cloak trailing behind her. 

Soon, she's gone. 

When Steve goes inside, it's clean and tidy, warm from the crackling fire. The air smells faintly of cinnamon, or cloves. Steve has no idea what Natasha did with the heart, but there's no trace of it. No blood stains to be found, and even the sling has been cleaned, dried, and folded neatly by the hearth. 

Bucky is still lying near the fire, wrapped snugly in the furs, and he is deeply asleep, his breathing steady and even. Steve kneels down beside him, pressing the back of his hand to Bucky's forehead and finding his fever has broken, not that he doubted Natasha for a second. As promised, Bucky's arm is whole, healed, curled loosely against his chest. There is some faint bruising around his wrist, where the worst of the damage had been, and a faint impression of spidering scar tissue, as though it is a wound long healed, years old. 

Satisfied, Steve tucks Bucky in and exhales a shuddering breath. 

He busies himself completing all the chores he didn't have time to do last night, bringing in their packs and setting a fresh pot over the fire to boil water, to which he adds soup base, dried meat, and grain.

The soup keeps him occupied for a while, worries and fears draining away as Bucky sleeps peacefully. Eventually, Bucky makes a soft noise, stirring in front of the fire. Steve leaves the pot bubbling and joins him just as Bucky's eyes open and he looks up at Steve in confusion. 

"Steve,” he breathes. “I had such strange dreams."

Steve winces, combing a hand through his hair. "Not just dreams, I’m afraid."

“What? What happened—” Bucky’s brows draw together and he struggles to push himself up. "Oh god, the storm—my _arm_!" 

Steve steadies him, taking Bucky’s trembling weight. "Rest easy. Your arm is healed, but you must be careful with it," he explains. 

Panic seems to grip him, though; Bucky shakes his head, holding his arm out stiffly. "My bracelet… It’s—I told you, it’s a family heirloom, I must keep it safe. Where is it?”

"It's gone," he says firmly. “Lost.” Whatever danger Bucky is in, Steve wants to be prepared for it.

"What? No!” cries Bucky. “It's—I have to find it. I have to wear it. You don't understand!"

"I'm sure that I don't, because you're not making sense," Steve says evenly, putting a hand on his shoulder to steady him. "Try to relax. You've been through a lot, Bucky."

"I have to find it," Bucky whispers fiercely, his eyes wide. "Did it fall? When the... when I fell off my horse? It must be on the path."

"If it is, it's in pieces," says Steve. "Your arm was shattered, and your bracelet with it."

Bucky's face twists with shock, and his mood seems to shift. Desperation turns to defensive mistrust. "Did you do this?" he demands shakily. "Is _this_ the test? Were you hoping I'd be thrown down into the gorge instead?"

" _What_?" says Steve, his voice rising. "Bucky, I really won't stand for wild accusations. We _both_ nearly died in that storm. I'm sorry about your trinket, but it's gone. Broken, shattered. Unless you explain it, I can't help you. I _want_ to help you."

Bucky's pale, pinched face looks wretched, his dark eyes wet with tears. He's shaking a little, gaze darting around as though if he just looks hard enough, he'll find the bracelet. "You don't understand," he whispers again. "It's... I have to wear it. He'll know if I'm not. I—"

"Who?" demands Steve. "Who will know? Natasha—my friend, who healed you, she said that bracelet was _cursed_ , Bucky, she felt whatever magic was still clinging to you even after it was gone. What was it?"

Bucky’s throat works, torn about answering, but he slumps in defeat. “I don’t know,” he whispers. "A... a magical tether? A tracking device? When he wanted, he could see through my eyes, listen in without me knowing."

" _Who_?" demands Steve, sickened by the implications.

Bucky is beside himself, his hand going to his left wrist again and again, as if he's expecting to feel the bracelet still there. 

"Bucky," says Steve, letting every bit of authority he has carry into his voice. "Tell me what's going on so that I can help you!"

Bucky's eyes abruptly well up, tears splashing down as he finally gives in. "Alexander Pierce! My sister's regent. The man _running_ my country and holding my sister prisoner! She’s meant to be _queen_." 

“Pierce?” echoes Steve, struck dumb. "Your sister is being held prisoner? By Pierce?" 

Alexander Pierce had been so reasonable. 

He'd brokered this deal, appealing with quiet confidence to Steve's sense of duty and fairness. _Let our countries rest. Let them heal. We must start something new, join our countries through family, and forge a permanent peace._

Bucky’s cheeks are wet with tears “She could be dead now,” he says hollowly, shoulders shaking. “He said he’d kill her if I disobeyed him. If I failed in seducing you."

Finally, Steve understands Bucky's desperation. As long as the bracelet was intact, as long as Bucky did as he was told, he had hope. Now... all he has is a marriage he obviously never wanted, too far away from his homeland to know what's become of his sister.

Steve takes Bucky’s hands gently in his. "Bucky, I swear, we'll figure this out. I will make Pierce pay for what he's done. I swear to you."

"It doesn't matter!" cries Bucky. "Don't you understand? I haven't been wearing it all night! If he thinks I destroyed it or took it off, if he thinks I _disobeyed him_ , then it doesn't matter _what_ you do, it's too late."

Bucky buries his face in his hands. He isn't really sobbing, seemingly too numb with shock to do anything but sit like a marionette with its strings cut. 

Steve pulls him closer, putting his arms around him. "Think," he says firmly. "He made an investment, sending you here. His agenda is not _peace_. Your sister was his leverage in forcing you to agree, forcing your good behavior, but keeping an eye on you wasn't his end goal. He was hoping to glean something from spying on us, and if he hasn't gained that, then he won't tip his hand yet. It's much, much too early, which means he's going to try to contact you soon."

"He wants the throne," Bucky says flatly. "He doesn't want to rule in anyone's stead, he wants to _be_ king. Without Becca, and without me, he can do that. I don't think it matters anymore. He doesn't need me."

Steve shakes his head grimly. "Not necessarily. Otherwise, wouldn't he have just killed your sister after we were married?"

"I only know what he threatened me with," Bucky says. "He could have lied. Maybe he did kill Becca as soon as I was no longer in line for the throne. Maybe I was a fool to even believe him."

"No," says Steve. "That bracelet was cursed, Natasha said so. He intended to keep using it, which means he wanted to learn something."

"Something about you, then," Bucky suggests. His voice sounds flat, like he's participating in this conversation out of politeness, but doesn't believe a word of it. "About Aphekion."

"If it came down to war, Thespethra would lose," muses Steve. "He didn't want to fight us."

"No, he didn't," agrees Bucky, shrugging. "Maybe he wants to find another way to undermine your power."

"He couldn't. He doesn't know what it is," says Steve absently. 

Bucky looks at him. “What does that mean?”

The truth, when it hits, is so obvious Steve almost wants to laugh. Out of all the people in the world, who would Steve ever tell his secret? Who would he trust enough with his mother’s gift? 

His husband, of course. A union, born of goodwill and peace. A gesture of faith. 

" _Oh_ ," he breathes. "He doesn't know what it is. He doesn't know how to take it. That's what he wants."

Bucky's own eyes have widened. "What are you talking about?"

"I almost told you when I brought you to her memorial. I almost told you then," he breathes. "But... I waited. That storm—he meant for something to happen to one or both of us, trying to push us closer, maybe, so he could listen in. But he overplayed his hand and didn't count on the bracelet being destroyed."

"Steve,” Bucky says plaintively. “What are you _talking_ about? Please, what does any of this mean for my sister?"

“She is alive. I know it, Bucky. It means he will still try to use her against you because you’re the only one that can give him what he needs," says Steve. 

It all makes sense now. He can see the plan, see the intricate tactics, the scheme, the way it almost unfolded. 

"Which is _what_ exactly?" Bucky scrubs at his face. "What am I supposed to bring him?"

"My head on a silver platter,” Steve says frankly. “I'm so sorry, but I still can't tell you. You have to trust me, Bucky. Please."

"Trust you," echoes Bucky, sounding utterly hopeless. His eyes look more gray than blue, today, and they scan over Steve's face, searching and searching for whatever he needs to believe in Steve. "I don't have a lot of choice, do I."

Steve's heart breaks. "You do," he says. "I won't ever take that from you. But as long as we’re waiting for Pierce’s next move, I have to keep this from you."

"So be it," says Bucky, looking away, out the window, into the snow. "I trust you. You saved my life, after all."

"I'm sorry this happened to you," Steve says softly. "That so much of your life has been decided for you."

Bucky’s gaze, when it returns to Steve’s face, peers into the very core of him. "You have been far from the worst part," he admits very quietly. "I wish we had met under different circumstances."

Steve squeezes his uninjured hand. "My friend, the witch. When we return to the estate, I'll find a raven and send her a message. I'm sure she'll be able to give us news about your sister."

"She can do that?" asks Bucky warily. 

"She saved your life, salvaged your arm. She can do a lot of things. She saved my life, once, too."

"In my dreams, she was there," murmurs Bucky. "I was in a field, nothing for miles, all alone. I was calling and calling, and no one was answering, until I turned around and she was there. Red hair, cloaked in black feathers."

Steve holds his breath. "And then?"

"She took my face in her hands and told me to be wary. That I was right to be guarded, but not with you. Then she smiled at me, and I could barely breathe. I don't remember anything else."

“You can trust me. I promise you that.”

"I do," says Bucky. "I shouldn't, maybe, but I do."

"I won't let you down," swears Steve. 

"I believe you," says Bucky. His sad smile doesn't reach his eyes, but there’s truth in it.

Bucky is not only beautiful, but vulnerable and fierce, and Steve can't help but echo Bucky's sentiment: he wishes they’d met under different circumstances. He'll have Pierce's head for this, for hurting Bucky, for making Steve believe he could have something so beautiful and true, only to use Bucky to destroy them all. 

"We should eat." He gives Bucky's hand one last squeeze, and then pulls away from him. 

They eat in silence. Bucky is clearly preoccupied, and Steve, also. 

No one living knows the truth about Sarah Rogers and her magic. No one but Steve knows that when she sacrificed herself, she bound her power to her son. 

To defeat a magic user is to defeat the source of their power. Steve is safe as long as Pierce doesn’t know what the source of Steve’s power is.

Steve is special. He doesn’t like to dwell on the power that resides within him, because it reminds him that his mother died to give it to him, but he doesn’t want to forget where his abilities came from. 

He'll be damned if he lets the likes of Alexander Pierce take them.

👑❄️👑

They head out not long after eating.

It’s still early, and they take their time travelling home, wary of the high drifts as they push through the snow, but the further they get from the ravine, the less snow there is. 

When they’re within five miles of the estate, there is absolutely no hint there even was a storm. 

"Unnatural," murmurs Bucky, eyeing the grassy field around them. 

They arrive in the early afternoon, and nobody comments on their evening’s absence. They packed for one or two nights away, and without snow in this area, there is no reason the staff would have known to worry. 

Steve has no desire to call attention to what happened, anyway.

"Did you enjoy your excursion, your majesty?" asks the stable boy as he takes the reins of their horses. "It was lovely weather, wasn't it?"

"Stunning," says Steve blandly. "We ended up staying out longer to enjoy it."

Bucky is thin-lipped but quiet, and Steve puts a hand at the small of his back to guide him inside. Indoors, they head to their bedroom to get cleaned up. 

"I need a bath," groans Bucky, stripping out of his travelling clothes and leaving a trail behind him as he strides into the bathroom. 

Steve takes off his gloves and sighs, mind turning over and over. He paces the room for a while, then finds a servant and requests a late lunch, before he resumes his pacing, which leads him out to the balcony. Sighing, he leans on the railing and looks out over the estate gardens. 

There's a large, black raven hopping around in the mud, snatching up helpless worms. 

Steve tries to catch its eye, whistling for it. Finally, he grabs some jerky from his pack and lures it up to the balcony. As it picks at the dried meat, Steve says, "Tell your mistress I don't need her company, just some good news, if she can spare it. I need to know if Rebecca Barnes lives, and if she's still in captivity. Understand?"

The raven cocks its head and echoes, "Mistress!" at him in a clear, human voice. 

Steve hisses a curse, backing up a step. The raven hops closer, snatching the last bit of jerky from his fingers. "Understand!" it echoes. 

With a final, discordant _caw_ , it takes flight.

Steve huffs, rubbing his palms against his thighs, his heart pounding against his ribs. "Well. Okay."

Message delivered, he goes back inside, where he finds that Bucky has emerged from the bath, wrapped in his robe while he rubs a towel through his hair. He glances up at Steve and then turns away as if ashamed to be caught looking. 

Tiredly, Steve pulls at his clothes, starting the process of taking them off too. “Food is on the way. I... sent a message to my friend, too. I’m not sure how long it will take, I’m sorry, but I asked her to check on your sister.”

Bucky nods, draping his towel over the rack near the fire. “Thank you.”

Steve nods. “I’m going to get washed up.” He doesn’t move, though, as Bucky hesitates, cutting a glance at Steve through his lashes. “...Bucky?”

Bucky’s expression melts into an almost childish insecurity. “Do you hate me now?”

“What?” Steve stares at him, staggered. 

“I’d understand if you do,” Bucky continues hurriedly, absently cradling his arm against his chest. “Do you? Now that you know I lied to you. I was trying to manipulate you.”

"No," says Steve hotly. Bucky doesn't look convinced, nervously licking his lips and vibrating with tension. " _No_ ," repeats Steve, crossing the room and then hesitating. He wants to take him into his arms, but— 

“The only reason I'm _not_ touching you is because you've just bathed and I’m wearing filthy clothes. I don't hate you. I hate _Pierce_ , who lied to me, who engineered this, who manipulated us both, who blackmailed you. Bucky, if anything, I'm relieved. I feel better."

"Why?" croaks Bucky miserably. 

"Because I knew something wasn't right," says Steve. "And now I know what it is, which means I can face it. I can get to know _you_ instead of whatever act Pierce forced you to put on to gain my trust. If he thought all I'd want was sex, he was sorely mistaken."

"You don't blame me at all?" whispers Bucky.

"Would you have lied if you didn't have to?"

"No... No, I don't... I told you, I wish we'd met under different circumstances." Bucky hesitates. "I probably still would have flirted. Played coy. Tried to seduce you. Maybe you still wouldn't have wanted me."

“You keep saying that,” says Steve. “Acting like I don’t want you. Do you have any idea how hard it’s been to refuse? But I knew something wasn’t right. I do want you. I do, Bucky. I just wanted to know—”

Before Steve can get another word out, Bucky closes the distance between them and grabs Steve by his collar. “I don’t care about the dirt, I’ll take another bath.”

And then Bucky is kissing him, and— 

Steve kisses back, melting against Bucky’s warm body and wrapping his arms around him.

Bucky trembles, clutching desperately at Steve’s clothes. Bucky kisses like he's starving for it, starving for all the affection he’s been craving, and Steve swallows his soft noises against his soft lips.

They kiss until they're both breathless, and when Bucky noses at Steve’s cheek and ducks in for more, Steve laughs gently and says, "If we're going to go to bed together, I have to get clean, Bucky. I killed a mountain lion in these clothes. I’m covered in blood." 

"You...what?" Bucky blinks at him, gaping. "Why?"

"Natasha needed it, to save you," says Steve, shrugging. "I didn't ask."

“She... asked for a mountain lion and you just... did it, by yourself.” Bucky looks shocked. 

“Well... yes. You’re my husband. And you needed it, so I got it,” says Steve, because even if he wasn’t starting to like Bucky, to feel a certain amount of affection for him, he still would want to help him. That’s what marriage is, even if it is arranged. 

“I—you are incredible, Steve,” whispers Bucky, leaning in to press one last chaste kiss to his lips before he pulls away. “Go get cleaned up.” He glances down at his robe, now smudged with grime. “And I’ll change.”

In the bathroom, Steve strips out of his filthy clothes, stuffing them into the hamper. The tub is full and steaming, which means Bucky refilled it for him after his own bath, and Steve climbs in gratefully, sinking down with a deep sigh. 

He doesn't have time to really enjoy it, though, because Bucky is waiting. Steve soaps himself up and scrubs himself all over, rinses, then repeats the process again. Once he is thoroughly clean, he drains the tub and towels off. 

When he emerges damp and clean with a towel around his hips, he discovers that 'I'll change' actually means 'I will take _off_ my robe and get into bed naked and wait for you'. 

Steve stops short, mouth going dry. Bucky is under the covers, chest and hips exposed, reading a book cradled in his right hand. 

He looks up, his cheeks becomingly pink. “I’m not... I mean, it’s okay if you still don’t want to, but I’d like to be close. Truly. I want—you.”

Steve’s heart flutters warmly in his chest. He nearly lost Bucky, but he is here, now, alive and whole, nothing compelling him to be in Steve’s bed but his own desire. 

Steve can’t deny him. Steve can’t deny _himself_. 

Dropping the towel, he crosses the room and climbs into bed. He crawls right over Bucky’s body, thick thighs and a flat, toned stomach, strong, wiry arms, and his pretty, delicate throat. Steve touches it all, watching as Bucky’s eyes flutter and the book slips from his fingertips and falls to the floor. 

“Steve...” Bucky arches into him, head tossed back to expose his throat to Steve’s lips, so he can kiss and suck and lick.

If Bucky was overwhelmed by simply being held, clothed, in Steve's arms, there's no word to describe his reaction to having Steve pressed naked over him. His fingers tremble as he clutches at Steve, hips angled up, body tense. Steve wants to explore, to find all the spots that draw soft noises out of Bucky, and when he wriggles too much, Steve gently curls their fingers together and presses his hands down into the mattress. 

“Is this okay?” Steve murmurs, mindful of the healed injury. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“It doesn’t hurt,” Bucky says, squeezing Steve’s fingers. “I want you to—touch me.” 

"I'll touch you however you want, anytime you want," says Steve. Bucky is flushed red, all over, back arched, and Steve takes one of his nipples into his mouth to make him whine. "Because you're my _husband_." Bucky lets out a broken cry, his hardening cock brushing Steve's thigh. "I'm going to take care of you."

“Oh please, _please_ ,” gasps Bucky. He’s so responsive, so desperate for Steve’s touch and encouragement. 

Steve adores him, affection swelling up in his chest. He indulges himself, dragging his mouth along Bucky’s skin, sucking each nipple into his mouth, worrying them between his teeth and drawing out gasps of pleasure. Steve loves the way his stomach muscles flutter as he drags his tongue over his belly, and the sharp intake of breath when he moves lower, following the delicate trail of hair down to Bucky’s cock, curved up and flushed prettily. 

“Look at that, so eager for me,” Steve says in wonder, releasing Bucky’s hands to cradle his hips. “Do you want me to take care of you? Will you ask me?”

Bucky licks his lips, looking down at Steve. “Please?” 

Steve smiles, teasing. “You can do better than that.”

Steve _sees_ the flush spread down Bucky's chest as he squirms under Steve's firm weight. 

"Please," whispers Bucky, eyes wide and intent on Steve. "Please, my king, please take care of me." His throat works and he arches restlessly. "I'm yours."

Steve shudders, nodding and kissing the head of Bucky's cock. "You are. You're mine, my responsibility, mine to keep. I'll protect you, sacrifice for you."

Bucky groans, tossing his head back. "How do you know just what to _say_!"

"I know you need me," Steve says gently. "Just as I need you. We're both lonely, unloved. The truth is, Bucky, we belong to each other."

Bucky’s hands bunch up the sheets, twisting as he shakes his head. “You’re not, you’re not—your people love you, your knights and your friends. You are beloved, and you don’t belong to anyone.”

Steve hums, opening his mouth and licking Bucky’s cock, just over the head, flicking the tip of his tongue against the slit while Bucky whines. Lifting his head, he says, “I belong to you. Heart and soul, mind and body.”

“Oh!” cries Bucky, squirming as his breaths turn ragged. His voice is broken as he confesses, “I could—fall for you. Love you. I think I could.”

“The feeling is mutual,” murmurs Steve, before taking Bucky into his mouth. 

In giving this to Bucky, Steve relies on knowledge of what feels good to him, letting his determination drive him. It helps that Bucky is so enthusiastic, his reactions the only real encouragement Steve needs to learn how to please him. 

Bucky is so _responsive_ , so desperate for every touch and word and scrap of affection Steve has to offer him, and Steve has no desire to offer him mere scraps. He wants to devour Bucky, surround him with love, swallow him down and make him come so hard he can't even _think_. He deserves nothing less than all-consuming pleasure. 

Only Bucky keeps moving, gasping and squirming and pushing at Steve's hands, and Steve has to contain him, hold him down, apply gentle pressure, until— 

Bucky wraps his thighs around Steve's head and gasps, jerking his hips and spilling down his throat.

Steve sputters and chokes, but he does his best to swallow it all, licking at the corners of his mouth as he finally pulls back. Bucky is panting, legs fallen open. He looks completely debauched. 

Steve crawls up his body and catches his slack mouth in a hungry kiss, pinning Bucky's hands down again. Bucky is precious and clumsy in the aftermath of his orgasm, responding to Steve's kisses with unfocused skill. "Beautiful boy," murmurs Steve, kissing along his jaw. "Thank you for letting me take care of you."

"Steve," breathes Bucky. "My _king_ , please, will you make love to me? Take what you need, _please_."

Something takes hold of them as they catch their breath together, invisible threads binding them together as Steve kisses Bucky again and again. When Steve rolls over to search the drawers for oil, Bucky whines and clutches at him, Steve laughing as he returns to settle over his hips. "I’m learning so much about you.”

Bucky’s cheeks are red. “Like what?”

“You’re impatient,” Steve teases. “Needy.”

"I'm not _needy_ ," huffs Bucky. 

"Needy, and sweet," Steve says firmly. 

Bucky scowls at him and Steve laughs, slicking up his fingers and reaching down to rub gently over his hole. Bucky swallows his next sound, muscles rippling as he tenses and then relaxes, throwing his hands up above his head and burying them in his rumpled hair.

"And you squirm," Steve continues, pressing more firmly, leaning down to catch Bucky's mouth in a kiss. 

“I can't help it,” Bucky complains, his hips working to push into Steve's touch. “You feel—wonderful.” 

"Breathe for me," Steve instructs, pushing his finger into the warm heat of his body. 

Bucky is trembling with need, but he breathes deeply as instructed, chest rising and falling. Slowly, Steve strokes and twists and rubs inside him, works him open and slides a second finger in, and when Bucky starts to plead again, Steve squeezes his hip, soothing him.

"Good boy," breathes Steve. "Good, perfect boy. You didn't need just anyone, you needed _me_. I’m here to make you feel good."

"Please," sobs Bucky, hips squirming back onto Steve's finger. "You horrible tease—” 

"What happened to 'my king'?" interrupts Steve, grinning. "Now I'm horrible?”

"You can be both,” Bucky splutters. “They're not mutually—mutually exclusive terms. You're my king, and you’re a horrible tease!"

Steve laughs, delighting in the personality that Pierce couldn't tame or threaten away, the Bucky that could never hold his tongue. He presses deeper. 

Bucky groans, arching his back and drawing his knees up to spread his legs wider. "You—Steve, please, I can’t stand it, please just _fuck_ me! You said you'd take care of me—” 

Steve flexes his hand, coaxing a whine out of Bucky whine. “I will. I want you to remember our first time very clearly."

It's easy to pull out his fingers, slick up his cock, and push into Bucky. There's no resistance, and Bucky makes a noise of _relief_ , his body clenching around Steve like he wants to keep him there, keep him close. 

He sinks deep into that tight heat, rocking in and out, bottoming out with a smooth stroke that leaves Bucky gasping, obligingly pliant beneath him. 

"You're perfect," Steve murmurs fiercely, kissing Bucky's cheeks and forehead and eyelids and nose. "Just the right fit for me inside you, like you were made for me."

"I was, I was, I must have been made for you, I came to you, Steve," chokes Bucky, wrapping himself around Steve. 

Steve holds him close, rocking them together. They find a rhythm, wrapped together, Steve kissing everywhere he can reach, both of them sweaty and panting and holding on. 

"Mine, to have and to hold, Buck, that's what we said. So good, you're so good."

Steve feels a little like he's falling apart, like he's losing himself in Bucky, but if so, then Bucky's losing himself right back. They're together and that's all that matters. 

Bucky's legs go tight around his hips and Steve fucks into him with increased need, finding himself on the brink. "Come for me, honey. Come for me again, let me feel how perfect you are,” murmurs Steve, over and over, until Bucky does, squeezing around him and coming with a choked gasp.

As Bucky’s pleasure crests, Steve reaches the apex of his own climax, the coil of heat and arousal in his belly pushing him over the edge.

He can’t help but keep moving, greedily drinking in every last drop of pleasure, until fatigue grips him and he slumps, burying his face in Bucky’s chest and panting raggedly. Under him, Bucky makes a mild noise of distress and shoves at Steve's shoulder. "You're so heavy," he groans. 

Steve chuckles, exhausted, and wraps his arms around Bucky's waist firmly, rolling them both over onto their sides so that he can stay inside Bucky. 

"O-oh," grunts Bucky, squirming in his grip. He buries his face against Steve's chest, body fluttering around Steve's softening cock. "I never want to be with anyone else, Steve. I never want to leave you," he whispers. 

Steve holds him tight, kissing his brow. "I won't let that happen. You're mine to care for and protect. You're mine to love."

Bucky dozes for a while, safe in Steve's arms, until eventually Steve slips out of him and jostles Bucky awake, murmuring, "We should get cleaned up."

Bucky whines softly, shaking his head and tightening his grip on Steve, but he's too tired and lazy and utterly fucked out to resist when Steve untangles them and effortlessly scoops Bucky into his arms to carry him to the bathroom. "Already took a bath," he groans, batting at Steve with a loose fist. 

"There's come leaking out your ass," says Steve pointedly. 

"Gods," whispers Bucky, hiding his face against Steve’s shoulder. "Crass!"

Steve grins and fills the tub, adding fragrant oils. Bucky seems perfectly content to soak happily and let Steve do all the work. He’s getting the distinct impression that Bucky feels like he’s doing Steve a favor, letting him dote. 

After, Steve wraps Bucky up in a fluffy towel, and they go into the adjoining room to pick over the cold meal, sharing bites of dried meats and cheeses and fruit. 

Steve has the linens changed, while Bucky blushes, mortified, so Steve leans in to whisper into his ear, "If it's any consolation, I bet it was bigger gossip that we weren’t already dirtying the sheets." 

When they finally go to bed that night, Steve is at peace and ready for whatever tomorrow brings, Bucky warm and safe in his arms.

👑❄️👑

Steve stirs from deep, restful sleep as the bed dips next to him.

It’s late. Steve blinks blearily in the low light of the smoldering fire to find Bucky leaning over him, wearing one of Steve’s night shirts. It falls to his bare thighs, and Steve smiles at him sleepily, reaching up to cup his cheek. "What are you doing?" he mumbles. "Come back to bed, sweetheart."

"You know me," says Bucky, with the kind of vacant smile Steve hasn’t seen on his face for a while. He sounds—flat. "Wandering feet."

"Hmm," Steve hums, frowning. "Bucky, are you alright?"

Bucky settles fully on the bed, next to Steve’s hip. "I'm fine," Bucky replies. "I have a gift for you."

"What?" Steve yawns. He looks Bucky over in groggy concern, brushing his fingers over Bucky’s skin. Bucky’s foot, folded under him on the edge of the mattress, is flecked with...grass? What— 

"You should really learn to never trust a pretty face," says Bucky. 

Before Steve can think to react, Bucky flips a knife out of his sleeve and plunges it between Steve’s ribs.

***


	5. raven.

  


For a moment, Steve feels nothing at all.

He drags in a shocked breath, staring dumbly at Bucky, and finds himself frozen in place, impaled on the end of a blade held in Bucky’s white-knuckled fist, but— 

It doesn’t make sense. Steve doesn’t know what just happened. Bucky’s face is curiously blank, but he’s smiling. He’s smiling at Steve. 

Then Bucky yanks the knife out, dragging a hoarse scream out of Steve’s throat, and lifts his arm to strike again. 

“Bucky, I—“ Steve rasps, fear and confusion flooding his heavy, unresponsive body. He lifts an arm weakly, trying to block the next blow, but it never comes. 

A raven cries out, shrieking from the balcony, and Bucky jolts like he’s been struck, expression twisting. The knife clatters to the ground from his nerveless fingers. 

The raven calls out again. 

Steve watches helplessly as Bucky’s hands fly up to cover his ears. His body seizes, rigid with pain.

A moment later, the balcony doors burst open, and the raven soars in, followed by another, and another, and then— 

Natasha appears, cloaked by black feathers, her red hair like fire in the night. 

“You really shouldn’t leave your body unattended in the woods, Pierce,” she says, but she’s staring straight at Bucky. She strides toward him, staff extended. 

“Natasha, no—!” gasps Steve. “Don’t hurt him, don’t—”

He is soundly ignored. Natasha reaches out, and for a brief, horrible moment, Steve thinks she’s going to hit him with her staff. Instead, she lashes out with her free hand and presses her thumb to the center of his forehead. Bucky’s entire body jolts like he’s been struck by lightning.

Steve watches in horror as Bucky's eyes roll back in his skull. His body sags, swaying sickeningly, like Natasha has just ripped a demon from him, and Steve reaches out to catch him in his arms with a desperate curse. 

"I wasn't going to let him fall," Nastaha says mildly, raising an eyebrow at Steve. "Put him down and let me tend to you, fool."

"Tend to me while I hold him," snaps Steve, refusing to let go of Bucky's limp, vulnerable body, cradling him against his shoulder. "What _was_ that? You—you called him Pierce?"

"He stabbed you, didn't he?" Natasha puts her entire palm over the stab wound bleeding steadily into Steve’s rumpled nightshirt. The throb of pain escalates to an intense burn, and Steve grits his teeth and tries not to flinch away from her as she seals the ragged skin and stops the bleeding. "I feel like he wouldn't normally be prone to doing that."

"It wasn't Bucky?" Steve is following along slowly, ripped out of deep sleep by Bucky burying the blade of Steve's own knife in him, a serene look on his face before Nastaha soared in on the wings of ravens. He thinks he can probably be forgiven some confusion. "How, then?"

"Pierce was occupying his mind," says Nastaha. She releases Steve, leaving him with a dull ache between his ribs, her hands miraculously clean of blood. With a frown, she holds her palm gently to Bucky's face. "Trapped him and took over. A complex spell, but not one out of the realm of possibility. I kicked him out."

"Truly?" asks Steve, relief crashing through him. Nastaha doesn't lie, and it wasn't Bucky who stabbed him. It wasn't Bucky to betray him, after they gave themselves to each other so completely. "He's gone, and Bucky's safe?"

“For now,” says Natasha tensely. “Pierce is still out there. Until he’s dead, your prince won’t be safe from his influence, nor you from his scheming," says Nastaha. She pauses, her expression distinctly disturbed. "He had no control. He was screaming for you when I broke the spell."

“Oh, gods,” breathes Steve, looking down at Bucky. He combs his fingers through his hair, watching him breathe shallowly. “I knew Pierce wouldn’t just let this go... did you get my message?” Steve looks up at her. “Bucky’s sister?”

A strange smile pulls up at the corner of Natasha’s mouth. “Hopefully she’s getting rid of Pierce.”

“He didn’t have her captured?”

“He did, but she escaped soon after Bucky came to you. She’s been leading a rebellion against her own kingdom to reclaim her throne and recover her brother.”

Steve lets out a startled laugh. “I should have known Bucky’s sister wouldn’t be easy to contain.”

As if summoned, there's a heavy clatter on the balcony, and as Natasha and Steve turn to look at the open double doors, a figure crouches in the darkness. 

"Here she is now," says Natasha, raising her staff to cast more light in the room. 

Queen Rebecca Barnes looks just like her brother, with dark hair, wide eyes, and a vulnerable mouth, but there is nothing vulnerable about the way she strides into the room in a gleaming suit of plate mail. There is a sword in her hand and she casts steely eyes around the room. 

At the sight of Bucky unconscious in Steve’s arms, her lips thin. “King Steven,” she greets tightly. “Where is the traitor? I’ll have his _head_.”

“He escaped?” demands Natasha. “Before you arrived?”

“There was no trace of him in the field where you tracked him, but I’ll find him. Your majesty,” Rebecca says formally, drawing herself up, those familiar blue eyes hard. "I intend to exchange the traitor, Alexander Pierce, for my brother James. My regent brokered a deal with you that he had no authority to sign.”

“Queen Rebecca," Steve greets evenly, holding Bucky tightly. "It's good to see you alive and well. Bucky has been worried."

She seems to falter a little at the sound of the nickname, but rallies quickly, stepping forward. "What happened? What did he do with him?"

"He should be coming around any second now," says Natasha. "I was giving his mind some time to fortify itself. Pierce stripped down what little defenses he had. We're really going to have to work on that."

"Steve," mumbles Bucky. "Steve, no, you idiot, it's not me.... Steve, please—" 

"I'm right here," says Steve anxiously, giving him a gentle shake. "Wake up, Buck. It’s okay."

Bucky blinks his eyes open and then blinks again, very deliberately, as if testing something. Relief breaks across his face and he lurches up to wrap trembling arms around Steve’s neck, holding him close. Steve returns the tight hug and buries his face against Bucky’s shoulder, completely forgetting about their audience. 

Queen Rebecca clears her throat stiffly. “Ja—Bucky.”

Bucky snaps his head up, staring in shock at his sister. “ _Becca_?”

Her stern, serious expression falters, love and concern bleeding through to soften her features. “It’s me, Bucky.”

With a hoarse cry, Bucky stumbles to his feet and flings himself into his sister’s arms, heedless of her armor and sword, and she catches and holds him just as tightly as he grasps for her. “Gods, I’ve been worried out of my _mind_ for you. What are you doing here? What’s going on?”

Queen Rebecca rests a hand over the top of Bucky’s head, knocking lightly. “I’m here for you, idiot. My forces received word that Pierce was traveling this way, and we saw our opportunity to strike. To rid ourselves of him once and for all, and bring you home.”

Bucky clings to her, clearly overcome, and she holds him protectively, rubbing his back and stroking his hair. "I'm so glad to see you," he chokes out, clearly on the verge of tears. "I thought he still had you. We were trying to figure out how to help you."

"I escaped," says Queen Rebecca, meeting Steve's eyes over Bucky's head, her expression very carefully neutral. "To be honest, Bucky, I thought you’d need rescuing."

"He did," says Natasha. "How's your head, Prince James?"

Bucky reluctantly pulls out of Rebecca's embrace, looking over at her, then at Steve, and his face crumples. "I stabbed you," he says, lurching away from his sister and wringing his hands. “Steve, I—” 

"You didn’t," Steve says firmly, rising from the bed to meet him. "I'm fine, Buck. Natasha fixed it."

Bucky looks horrified, his eyes wide. "I—I tried to fight back. He...I don't know, I..."

"How did he find you?" asks Natasha. "What did he lure you with?"

"A—a dream," says Bucky unsteadily. "I was dreaming, following a dark figure down endless corridors, like a maze, until I finally reached a door, and… When I woke up, I was...I was outside. Barefoot, in my night clothes, in the middle of the field, and the dark figure reached for me, only it was—it was Pierce. When he touched me, I…” Bucky shudders. “It was like falling. It was dark, and I could only hear and see as if from a great distance away, trapped in my own…” He closes his eyes, stricken. “I’m sorry.”

Steve reaches out to take both of Bucky’s hands in his, squeezing gently. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Pierce is very powerful,” agrees Natasha. She grips the staff in her hand tightly, tendrils of red magic licking at the black gem that sits atop it. 

Outside on the balcony, one of her ravens lets out a guttural croak. 

In the heavy silence that follows, the air around them seems to thicken. 

“Do you all feel that?” Steve asks quietly. Queen Rebecca moves closer to Bucky, raising her sword, on alert.

For a moment, nothing happens. The tension is so thick it feels like a physical pressure against Steve’s skin. He’s scanning the room for the discarded knife when, out of the corner of his eye, he sees the door to their bedroom slowly, silently swing open. 

“Pierce,” Natasha says, voice low. 

The creature silhouetted in the light of the doorway bears little resemblance to the man Steve remembers from the peace talks. He is gaunt and sickly, blue eyes burning like coals in wizened sockets, but he still moves with power and speed as he enters uninvited into their chambers. 

“This is trespassing,” Steve says, drawing himself up stiffly. “You’re not welcome here.”

Pierce sneers, his face a grotesque mask of malice and greed. “Trespassing? I will be your new _king_ , whelp.”

“And how will you achieve that, Alexander? Do you plan to kill us all?” Steve demands. “Face it. All your schemes failed. Despite everything, we’ve come together and revealed your desperation to rule lands you have no claim to.” 

“You,” hisses Pierce through gritted teeth. Those blazing eyes fix solely on Steve, his lips curled back in an animalistic snarl. The rest of the room falls away. “I _will_ reveal you. I will take what’s yours.” 

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky says urgently, grabbing Steve’s arm to pull him back. 

Without sparing any of the others even a glance, Pierce advances on Steve with his arm raised, skeletal fingers sparking with bolts of white light. 

As Steve stands his ground, blocking Bucky with his body, Natasha and Queen Rebecca act as one to flank Pierce from opposite sides, only to both be brushed away with an invisible force in a casual sweep of Pierce’s other hand. He laughs, cruel and sharp. 

“Save yourself, Buck,” Steve hisses, reluctantly taking a step back. “Run, please. He wants me.”

Bucky trembles against him, but doesn’t flee. “I won’t leave you. I _won’t_.”

Steve’s heart pounds against his ribs. Blood rushes in his ears, his vision narrowing until all he can see is the smug victory on Pierce’s face. 

There’s nothing he can do. He has nothing to fight with. No way to protect them. With only his bare fists raised, he lifts his chin defiantly and stares Pierce down. 

“I’m going to enjoy this,” Pierce says quietly, striking out like a viper with clawed fingers. 

It’s an instinctive response.

Unarmed and helpless, Steve squares his shoulders and raises his forearm up over his eyes to block out the flare of blinding light from the spell Pierce unleashes, his other arm twisted back to clutch at Bucky. To keep him close, even if he can’t do more to protect him than use his body as a shield. 

Later, Steve will be hard-pressed to explain what, exactly, happens next. His eyes, after all, are closed, and he is braced for a strike, waiting tensely for the sting of an offensive spell, for pain, for death. 

And the strike does come, after what must only be a fraction of a second but feels like an eternity of anticipation; a concussive blast that fades to distant ringing in his ears, and the impact and pressure of an intense explosion. Heat ripples across his skin and singes at his hair. 

Steve remains standing. When he raises his head and opens his eyes, he hisses at the bright light and blinks rapidly to focus. 

Arcing out from Steve’s wrist in a brilliant disc of pure blue light is a gleaming fractal shield. 

Several feet away, Pierce stands in furious shock, smoke rising from his smoldering clothing. The hand that had been raised so threateningly against Steve is withered and blackened, a gnarled claw. 

“I knew it,” he snarls. “I knew you were hiding something, you insolent child. Today, the Aphekion royal family line ends with _you_.”

This time, when Pierce unleashes the magic crackling around his fist, Steve trusts in the warm glow of his mother’s last gift. He lifts his arm with unwavering faith, holding it up over his head, and wraps his other arm around Bucky’s shoulders, keeping them both tucked safely under the protective barrier. 

A moment later, when the spell hits, the shield erupts in a dazzling burst of white light that crackles and dissipates across the room with a deafening crack of thunder. 

Pierce cries out, flung across the room by the force of the blast. He hits the wall and crumples. 

Nearby, Queen Rebecca staggers to her feet, eyes blazing. She glances at Steve, who cautiously lowers the shield, and she nods tightly and grips her sword. 

Bucky reflexively squeezes Steve’s free hand. “Becca!” he cries, voice raising in warning. “Pierce—!”

Queen Rebecca whirls around, sword extended, as he rises from across the room and lurches towards her. 

As he lifts his hands to cast, a raven calls. 

A huge black shape flies over Steve’s shoulder through the open balcony doors, wings extended, and swoops at Pierce. 

Feathers brush Steve’s cheek as the first bird is followed by countless more, until—

A conspiracy of ravens flocks around him.

“Witch!” shrieks Pierce, ducking to avoid the birds and their cruel talons and sharp beaks. “You think I’m afraid of you?”

“You’d be a fool not to be,” Natasha murmurs, green eyes aflame, the very air around her sizzling. 

Pierce screams as a raven ravages his face and he claws at his bloodied eye with a crumbling black finger. 

His last spell deflects harmlessly off Steve’s shield. 

Next to Steve, Bucky steps forward, a glint of metal between his fingers as he deftly flicks his wrist. The knife that Pierce forced him to slip between Steve’s ribs flies true, striking Pierce squarely in the shoulder. He stumbles back against the wall, letting out a pained howl as he slumps. 

“For the crimes of treason, conspiracy, and attempted murder, I sentence you to death,” Queen Rebecca says quietly. 

Pierce doesn’t make another sound as her blade separates his head cleanly from his shoulders. 

“Gods,” mutters Bucky, abruptly turning his back on the limp corpse and cupping his hand over his mouth. 

With a final beat of strong wings, the ravens depart, leaving behind just Natasha calmly brushing a bit of dirt from her shoulders. 

Steve exhales shakily, the adrenaline draining out of him so abruptly he suddenly feels cold. Staggering to Bucky, he wraps his arms around his shoulders and sags against him in a needy hug, desperate to feel the warmth of his body. 

“Steve,” Bucky breathes, embracing him tightly. “Gods, I can barely believe—that was—what _was_ that?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Steve admits. “It’s never happened before.”

“When need is greatest,” comments Natasha lightly. “May love and light guide you in protecting those you love.”

Steve raises his head from Bucky’s shoulder. Queen Rebecca is cleaning her sword on Pierce’s cloak. Steve swallows hard around the sudden lump in his throat. “My mother,” he says solemnly. “Her gift.”

“Her sacrifice,” Natasha says, raising an eyebrow. “It’s part of you, now.”

“That’s what Pierce wanted?” asks Bucky. He steps back, but doesn’t release Steve’s hands. 

“He likely didn’t know _what_ he wanted,” Natasha shrugs. “What he did know was that—once, the crown prince was gravely ill and close to death, until he was miraculously healed, only for the queen regent to pass away shortly thereafter. He hoped to uncover more power in his quest to conquer two thrones. Instead, that power overwhelmed him. I doubt he would have had much use for a defensive magic borne of love, anyway. He just sought to find your secret and crush you with it.” 

“You couldn’t tell me, the day of the storm,” Bucky says, squeezing Steve’s hands. “When you took me to meet her.”

“I wanted to,” Steve says softly. “More than anything. I wasn’t ready yet, even before I realized what Pierce wanted to learn through you. I’m sorry, love.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Bucky says firmly. “Steve, you have saved me, again and again.”

“And for that, King Steven, you have my eternal gratitude,” says Queen Rebecca, sheathing her sword. 

Steve straightens instinctively, and meets the queen’s formal bow with his own show of respect. 

“I have come to take my brother home,” she continues. "As you may have guessed in the light of recent events, my disgraced advisor, Alexander Pierce, negotiated this peace treaty and marriage under false pretences, with the aim of removing all three of us from power to take control of both our kingdoms. His deal is null and void, on account of fucking _treason_." 

"I—" Bucky steps forward, his expression gutted. He looks desperately at Steve, then back to his sister. "I don't...Becca, that’s not—we’re not—I don’t want to leave."

Steve nods. “With all due respect, Queen Rebecca, I would be more than happy to renegotiate any terms of the deal to ensure true peace between our kingdoms, except for my marriage to Bu—to Prince James.”

Beside him, Bucky sags with relief. “I hope you can understand, Becca. Whatever circumstances led to this, whether they were legitimate or not, we’re legally married, and I don’t want that to change.”

Queen Rebecca’s brow furrows, keen gray eyes scrutinizing them both. “You want to stay,” she says slowly. She glances quickly at Natasha, who is making no move to even pretend she’s not listening closely to this conversation while casually examining her red nails. “And my brother is free to make his own choices?”

“ _Becca_ ,” hisses Bucky. “I won’t just stand here and be humiliated—” 

Natasha ignores Bucky, nodding easily. “Yes. James is no longer under the influence of any magic.”

Despite his embarrassment, Bucky refuses to back down. “If you insist on pursuing this absurd line of inquiry, then I acknowledge our union was arranged under false pretenses, but that doesn’t change the outcome. We both believe in this marriage, in what it means to the longevity of any peace treaty Aphekion and Thespethra hope to enjoy in future years. I _want_ to stay. I don’t want an annulment just because Pierce manipulated us.”

Queen Rebecca takes a deep breath and then looks to Steve, who has kept quiet in order to grant Bucky the space to speak up for himself after suffering under the weight of other people’s desires for so long. 

The queen’s expression is severe. It’s the kind of gaze that carries weight, and Steve squares his shoulders in response. 

"Don't look at him like that," Bucky says sharply to his sister. "Becca, Steve hasn't done anything to manipulate me!"

"You were married off to him in the hopes that you'd both destroy each other," the queen says firmly, crossing her arms over the breastplate of her armor. "You’ll forgive me if I don’t immediately trust him after you’ve had scarcely a week to get to know one another."

"If you don’t trust him, you’re supposed to at least trust _me_ ,” argues Bucky, returning her scowl with a healthy dose of petulance indicative of his role as youngest sibling. "Trust _my_ judgment! Steve saved my life. He's done nothing but put me first since I arrived."

"You mentioned multiple counts of lifesaving. Care to expand?" asks Queen Rebecca, narrowing her eyes. 

Bucky glances at Steve, then straightens almost imperceptibly. “Exactly what I said. Pierce conjured a magical storm to trap us in the wilderness when we were out on a ride, miles from the castle. My horse threw me and trampled my arm, and Steve carried me to safety, then found Natasha, somehow, and she guided Steve in saving my life. He did it, without a single hesitation. He could have let me die if he'd wanted me gone."

"Bucky..." Queen Rebecca sighs, running her fingers through her hair. "I believe you, of course. I don’t doubt the events that have come to pass these past few days, considering what I’ve seen tonight. But I would have never signed your life away for a peace treaty. You want this? Really and truly, you want to stay here with the king?"

"Yes," says Bucky, without even a hint of hesitation. "The throne is yours anyway. I... I don't want to be parted from you, or leave you alone to rule, truly I don't. But this is my choice. I see a future here that Steve and I can build together. I see—love."

Queen Rebecca seems to wilt, the truth of Bucky’s words settling over her shoulders. "Then I can't deny you," she says sadly. "Though all I want to do is take you home where it's safe."

“I’m safe here,” Bucky insists. “I can see this becoming my home.”

Steve reaches for Bucky’s hand. 

Queen Rebecca glances at him, her expression softening. “We will need to meet to revise the treaty, legitimize it. I want to review every word before I provide my seal. But if this is what you wish, both of you, then your marriage stands. And I hope, King Steven, that I may be permitted to visit my brother. Perhaps in the summer. I hear it’s very nice here, then.”

“Please,” says Steve. “Call me Steve. You are welcome here anytime you wish, your majesty. We’re family, now. And we have a lifetime of peace to look forward to.”

Queen Rebecca nods. When she opens her arms, Bucky steps willingly into her hold for a fierce hug. “Take care of him,” she says to Steve. 

“You have my word,” Steve says quietly. “I swear on my life and my crown, no harm will come to him here.”

Finally, Queen Rebecca gives Steve a small, genuine smile. “Very well. If you would be kind enough to extend me hospitality, I think what I deserve right this moment is some sleep.” She glances at Pierce’s body. “I’ll get rid of this and then go to bed. I trust your servants can direct me?”

“Of course. I’ll have a room prepared. Do you need assistance?” asks Steve. 

“No, Natasha will help me with Pierce. I believe there are some rituals to adhere to, given what he was.”

Queen Rebecca bends and pulls Pierce's body over her shoulders, carrying him out, apparently leaving his head for Natasha to deal with. 

“Go,” Natasha says dismissively, when she catches Steve faltering over the urge to help clean up. “Have your moment together somewhere a corpse isn’t.” She waves them off. “I’ll come find you before I leave.”

“Once again, I am in your debt,” says Steve. 

Natasha rolls her eyes. “That concerns me little. If I need you, I’ll find you. And I’ll take advantage of your hospitality tonight, also.”

“Of course. As many nights as you wish it.” 

“Natasha,” Bucky says. “Thank you. For my sister, and for me.”

She inclines her head. “It is, as always, my pleasure. I will always be where I’m needed.”

At her insistence, they vacate the ravaged bedroom, settling in one of the many guest suites to get cleaned up, Bucky sitting on the edge of the bed as Steve searches out towels and a fresh change of nightclothes for them both. They’ll feel better after yet another bath.

Bucky watches him, arms wrapped around himself. "Are you really okay?"

"Fine, I promise," says Steve, coming over to sit next to him. "Natasha did magic on the wound. It's healed." 

"Okay," breathes Bucky, nodding. His eyes are pale in the glow of the lamp light, and rimmed red. "I'm—I'm sorry. Even if you say you don't blame me, I'm sorry for this."

Steve shakes his head, taking Bucky gently by the shoulders and pulling him into a hug. “I'm just glad it's over."

With a shuddering exhale, Bucky sags against Steve, head resting on his shoulder. “I hope I didn’t speak out of turn,” he says softly. “In light of all this… Was I wrong in what I said? Do you want this? Do you want—me?”

“With all my heart,” says Steve firmly. “Nothing has changed. I am yours, and you, mine. You were right: whatever the circumstances that forged this alliance, the outcome is everything I could have ever hoped for.”

Held safe in his arms, Steve can feel the tremor that runs through Bucky, the physical release of tension as he is able to relax in the knowledge that they’ve weathered the storm and there are clear skies ahead. 

When they do finally pull back, it’s only for a moment, Bucky surging forward to press a fierce, hot kiss to Steve’s lips. 

Steve sighs into it, cupping Bucky’s cheek in his hand. “To our future,” he murmurs. 

Bucky touches their foreheads together, his eyes slipping shut. “To us.”

***

Steve is 21 years old when trade reopens between Aphekion and Thespethra for the first time in hundreds of years.

He rules with Bucky at his side, both of them shielded by the warm glow of his mother’s last gift, shaping and strengthening the burgeoning ties between their kingdoms.

The future is bright.

***


End file.
